


Cause and Effect

by JaguarCello



Series: Cause and Effect [1]
Category: Les Mis - Fandom, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, F/F, Gen, Heroin, Hospitals, M/M, Mention of Self Harm (past), Multi, Overdose, Relapse, Social Justice, Suicidal Ideation, it's also happy sometimes I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's messed up, but then everyone knew that already. It's becoming more obvious. He blames Enjolras, because how the hell could you look at someone like that and not want a little Dutch courage?</p><p><a href="http://enjolrastic.co.vu/post/43811158994/bad-habits-a-grantaire-mix-he-lived-with-irony">a grantaire fanmix</a> can be found here</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t that Grantaire had that much of a reason for being like this. He, like most of the students, was from a fairly well-off family, and although his parents had cut him off, they’d been alright before he started drinking. And really, he felt like he needed a reason – because seriously, who gets depressed because their lives are too safe? So he’d started drinking and “self-medicating” (and that wasn’t even his term for it, but that was what the creepy pot dealer called it) to try to make himself numb. There wasn’t much to live for, but not much to die for either.

And it had worked – he’d turn up to school in the same crushed shirt from last night, and a pair of jeans from the nearest charity shop. There was ice on the ground but he’d always leave his coat at who-ever the hell’s house he passed out in last night, but he didn’t care about that. And he’d go to class even though it was fucking boring, sometimes. Mainly when he needed a distraction (because he’d been stockpiling pills for months, and he knew all the side-effects off by heart), but his life had been going in this way for a few months when he met them.

“They” were a group of students the same age as him, and they’d found him at a party being felt up by a terrifying guy from the year above. The terrifying guy hadn’t noticed yet that Grantaire was senseless at this point, but Joly had, and Courfeyac, and they’d charged over (they practically had wet dreams over the idea of rescuing the needy, for god’s sake. And Enjolras _definitely_ had wet dreams about it) and Combeferre had punched the scary dude in the face. They’d (apparently) picked up Grantaire and carried him off at a run, before barricading themselves and him in a room away from the rapey guy. He'd actually got a "consent is sexy" talk from Prouvaire, of all people. But he’d not sobered up until the morning, and that’s when he met Enjolras.

He’d been sitting on the floor by the window, smoking. The ash was falling onto his shirt, stained already with cheap beer, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it. Joly had leaned into the room. “They’ll kill you, you know.” Grantaire had snorted, and inhaled even more, blowing smoke towards Joly’s direction.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t fucking known,” he said, and then sighed at the kicked-puppy expression on Joly’s face. “Well, we’ve all got to die of something, anyway.” He turned away from Joly’s half-grimace, and blew a smoke ring the size of his hand.

A different voice – more confident, deeper (which went straight to his cock _my god_ ) – interrupted his smoke-art. “That’s funny; put it on your gravestone.” Grantaire turned to see a tall man standing in the doorway, wearing a red jacket. His face was better than his voice, and for a second, Grantaire let himself believe in something. But then he shrugged, and with a sardonic grin, retorted “Oh, I’m a pauper. I won’t get a gravestone and I’ll die in a ditch, of drugs or drink or angry men,” and then frowned to himself.

He shot a grin ( _you’re overdoing it you idiot_ ) over his shoulder, and then, with the desperation of a drowning man, tilted his head back to gulp from the bottle at his side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets the gang. They are odd.

Since that day, he’d had people to hang out with. Well, he’d had to meet most of them again because he couldn’t remember. Combeferre was going to be a teacher, and he’d probably be a good one because he actually liked being helpful and generally was too nice to be real. Jehan (for some reason he was the only one who liked his first name enough to use it) was a bit soppy. He actually wrote poetry, which Grantaire thought was a waste of time – but he was kind-hearted and probably a vegetarian. Then, he’d met Joly, who was training to be a doctor, and had diagnosed himself with pulmonary fibrosis right before they’d spoken (although he was pretty positive about it). Courfeyrac was one of the youngest in the year, with the maturity to match, and was practically bouncing off the walls. Even when people had hangovers, the little shit.

 After that (and a drink), he’d been introduced to Feuilly. Feuilly had clasped his hand, said “I am an orphan,” and then clapped him on the back and dragged Bahorel and Laigle over. Laigle was cheerful and for some reason, called Boussuet by his friends; Bahorel apparently “spends money like water” (according to Combeferre), and was studying law. Not that he went to class.

 They were a tight-knit group of friends; Grantaire, who’d never made friends that easily, found them easy-going. They debated (like seriously fucking debated) everything between them, from politics to abortions to gay marriage, at which point everyone had looked at Grantaire. He’d just mumbled something about being a terrible fuck buddy, let alone a husband, and that was that. They didn’t even ask about the rapey guy, although Jehan had brought up the subject of consent again(seriously, bloody sociology students). They didn’t ask about the drinking or the scars they must have seen, carrying him half naked as he was, that criss-crossed his legs and arms. So it was an interesting crowd, and that was before Enjolras turned up (again).

 He was the unofficial leader of the motley crew – not that he’d ever call them that, because he was fiercely proud of them - and could hold forth on any subject under the sun, and under different suns – he studied everything with a thirst for knowledge that Grantaire had never seen before. Which of course was typical for someone who actually quoted the health warnings on cigarette packets. With him came Marius, who apparently was “in love” with a girl from the dorms across for them. She was rich, apparently – her father (or adopted father, as the whispers went) doted upon her. Like, a lot. Allegedly, he'd found her living practically as a servant in a pub, but nobody knew how true this was. She did all her own cleaning and cooking, even though she was in catered dorms, and she gave a lot of stuff to charity, as Marius would enform anyone who couldn't run fast enough. Which was usually Grantaire because "sober" wasn't "exactly one of his character traits", according to Courfeyrac, and so Grantaire knew a lot. A fucking lot. 

 Marius himself was fairly level-headed, and didn’t get too involved in the fiery debates of the others. Once, Enjolras had almost hit him for defending the rich (some tax evasion thing, apparently. Grantaire forgot to listen), but of course he’d come from a rich family.  Most of the “amis” (how fucking pretentious can you get?) lived together in the same dorm building, the same one as Grantaire. He saw them a lot now, around the place. He'd come face to face with Boussuet at the shared washer-dryer on the ground floor (there was some beer under one of the sinks for safe-keeping), rocking back and forth in horror at a machine, lazily spinning all his shirts (now a pale pink) against the glass. Of course, Courfeyrac took responsibility for the red hat (seriously, this kid was as loud in dress taste as he was in life) that had been blamed - and Feuilly had told everyone of "another incident" in an ongoing saga of unluckiness for Boussuet...

  And Grantaire drank steadily from his corner, or smoked (and was forced to smoke out the window in case it made Joly’s disease of the week worse), and listened to their passionate words. But none was as passionate as Enjolras; he’d stand up and talk as if he’d practised it (and he might have done, because he had no social life and social justice probably gave him a boner), and he’d get a certain look on his face, and his cheeks would redden with emotion and – okay, so Grantaire was staring again. But who wasn’t? It was fine.

 The only time he’d zone out would be when Marius would talk about Cosette. He’d somehow found her room (which quite frankly is creepy) and had some photos of her from her Facebook page – they weren’t friends because she had no idea who he was – and he’d wax lyrical about her hair, her smile, her lips. Grantaire didn’t believe in love – he was studying art, but his teacher had noticed his “apathy” (her word, not his) and tried to make him believe in it because “it’s so important to artists!!!” (and yes you could hear the multiple exclamation marks) and so obviously he’d had to fuck her, just for a pass grade.

And yes, it was probably bad – he could practically hear the slaps in the face he’d get if it became known that he’d “betrayed his gay identity” because seriously, people got pissed about that (but he’d have to ask Jehan about stoned sex; he’s probably got a _blog_ about it). And it wasn’t that he liked her, because he liked nothing, but if he failed he’d get kicked out of college. And then he’d probably have to do something drastic to forget himself. Because the only thing he believed in (apart from drink, drugs and throwing punches for the hell of it) was Enjolras. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets Éponine, and Enjolras gets somewhat unnecessarily pissed off over a simple comment. 
> 
> it's kinda long I am sorry

It was a Thursday morning when Grantaire first met Éponine. He’d woken up in a strange car parked in the road outside a bar, with no clue what the hell had happened the previous night. It was a Wednesday night, for god’s sake. Les Amis (he had to use the name, apparently) had started off the night with him, but then at some point he must have left – they’d been in a bar, judging by the frantic messages on his phone from Bossuet - too nice for Grantaire, with his tattered coat and shoes; but he’d woken up without both of them.

  When he got out (fell) from the car, the ice crunched under his bare feet. He half-hopped into the bar, and promptly tripped over a stool in the doorway. A girl (who looked barely legal to drink, but he could see from the way she moved her fingers that they were itching for a bottle) sitting next to the stool smirked at him, her dark eyes glinting, and held out a hand (bitten fingernails, and smoke-stained) to pull him up.

 “You put that stool there, you know.” Her voice was husky with smoke and drink; he cleared his throat and realised his would sound the same. “How – where am I?” She laughed, and then pointed at the sign above the bar; “Corinthe”. He looked around, hoping to see his friends. A crooked clock on the wall chimed nine, and his head split with pain.

 “They left you a note. Apparently –“ and she was reading from a crumpled receipt now – “you drank a bottle of wine in under two minutes and then another two. Then you –“ she paused, and snickered -  “you decided to have a rant about banks or something. Everyone thought you cared about an issue, and Enjolras even asked you about it, but then we realised that no, you’d just run out of cash. And then you went to sleep in the car because we hid the key. We were amazed you could even get drunk, to be honest. You weren’t too nasty, but you did laugh at Jehan’s poetry. He cried.” She handed the note to him, along with an unlit but rolled joint; he tucked it behind his ear.

Grantaire tried to force his brain to make sense of this, and looked closely at the note, turning it over. “P.S. – good find. The food’s bad and the wine’s worse but they think you’re funny. We get free drinks next time, if we dare to come here again – Courfeyrac”.

 He looked up, and found she was still looking at him. “I’m Éponine, by the way. Did you know that we’re actually a three minute walk from your dorm? Why your car is here I have no idea.” He frowned, and looked back out at the car, which still wasn’t his.

 “It’s Marius’s car – but Éponine, do you know what happened to my shoes and coat?” He looked around the bar again, and caught sight of the landlady’s eye. She nodded at him, but he couldn’t see his coat, and his head throbbed.

“And why does my jaw hurt?” He rubbed his face in an attempt to sooth it ( _bad idea_ ), but she raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have some pretty bad bruises. Come on,” and she jumped off the bar stool, and presented Grantaire with his shoes. “Yeah, so Courfeyrac thought it would be a good idea to hide your shoes and coat. He (and this is a quote) said that if you left here you would die. He then compared the whole thing to a volcano or something? I don’t really know. Jehan probably wrote a poem about it.” Shrugging, she started making shooing motions.

He shoved his things on, not bothering to do the laces up, and then she pulled his coat off him again and put it on herself. “What? It’s cold outside.” He rubbed his jaw again, and followed her out the door.

 She was right – it really was just round the corner from his dorm; they walked together back up the stairs, she chattering all the while, and yes, he did mean all the while. She flitted from subject to subject – her dad, growing up in a sleazy pub, her problems – what was it that made women think that just because he liked dick, it mean he was into hearing about her period pains? Like, sure, he sympathised, but there was such a thing as too much information. And when he voiced this, he was kicked in the balls for his trouble; she said something about the “patriarchy” (oh, she would get on well with Jehan) and turned to go. 

 “You’re alive!”, exclaimed Marius from the doorway (and that boy had no volume control). “No, we literally all thought you were dead. And I mean I had to leave my car there so we could trick you. And if you were sick in my car I will kill you. Ditto if you smoked weed in my car. There is just no need, plus it’s illegal and I -” He stopped, and looked at Grantaire’s face. “How did you get into a fight between staggering out the bar, falling on your ass, and then us carrying you into my car?” He half-smiled in amusement, before walking back into his room, leaving the door half-open.

 Grantaire turned to look behind him, but Éponine was no longer there. Shaking his head (and okay, again, bad idea), he shuffled into the room, almost tripping over his laces, before lurching to a halt in front of the group – sitting on sofas and cushions and, in certain cases (Bossuet and Joly) practically _entwined_ together on the same pouffe. He frowned slightly at them (seriously what the hell had happened to that girl he thought had been mentioned last night?) but flopped down on a corner of the sofa, in between Courfeyrac – who _winked_ at him and then motioned to his shoes – and Combeferre.

 He wasn’t looking for Enjolras. He wasn’t not looking for him either, however, and when he did walk in from across the hall – hair slightly damp from a shower, bag slung over his shoulder, Grantaire straightened in his seat. Just a little.

 “Oh, I met a girl this morning,” Grantaire said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather (which obviously was appalling). “She told me where you’d all buggered off too – “ pointed glance here at Joly and Bossuet – “but anyway, thanks for not letting me drive. Like, I wouldn’t care if I died,” and then he realised he was still a little drunk; _come on get it together_ “because our little lives are unimportant in the great scheme of things, the sun, the stars, all that shit.” This was said triumphantly, and luckily Jehan nodded along with him, and started up a conversation about reincarnation, which Combeferre joined in with enthusiastically. He checked his watch – an heirloom from a distant relative – but to his dismay, the face had been smashed, and the hands had fallen to the fragment of casing left. Typical.

 “You know, I thought Bahorel and I were the only ones who didn’t bother with class, don’t you guys –“ Bahorel thrust a mug into his hand, beaming with the smile of someone perhaps over-medicated. At least he wasn’t the only one not legally sober then – and as he took a sip from the coffee (burning his tongue), he tasted what was probably _brandy_. “You’re such an enabler,” he grinned, and then took another sip, relaxing into the cushions.

 “Yeah, we did, but we thought you were dead so we were going to wait until you got back. Nice tattoo, by the way.” Grantaire looked to where Feuilly was motioning – his shirt, resplendent with stains of all sorts of questionable nature, was hanging open, and the curve of words could be seen. Grinning ruefully, he buttoned up the shirt. “I’m too sober to show you lot. And _anyway_ , yeah, I met this girl called Éponine. She gave me back my coat, so thanks Courfeyrac. And she gave me a joint. But then she disappeared when we saw Marius -”

 Courfeyrac gleefully punched Marius (who groaned like someone had murdered his puppy – which he probably actually had) in the shoulder, and then, straight-faced, said “Are you sure you know what a girl looks like, R? Not exactly your area of expertise – “ but he stopped when he saw that Enjolras had raised a (perfect) blonde eyebrow. “Oh, forgive me that I might try to make jokes, fearless leader. And I don’t know what you’re being all _sarky_ about, you even don’t have an area of expertise – “ A cushion hit him in the face, thrown by Feuilly. Grantaire’s eyes flickered between Enjolras and Courfeyrac – were they implying what he thought? He was as much of a virgin as he looked? (And my god he looked glorious)

 “Seriously?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “You’ve never – “ Bahorel was shaking his head behind Enjolras, but Grantaire ignored him. “Honestly, never? Do you even believe in fun?”

 Enjolras gave a forced laugh. “Look, my private life is private, hence the name. I also don’t drink, or smoke, or take drugs, or seemingly fail to do anything without some sort of material gain available for me. I actually go to class because I have a focus in life –“ Bahorel made a slight noise of protestation and he paused, high spots of colour on his cheeks. Was he _embarrassed?_ This speech certainly hadn’t been practiced.“I believe in living as I am comfortable with, and you don’t believe in anything!”

 Grantaire stiffened where he sat, mind racing as fast as his heart. “Why does it bother you that I believe in – I -  yeah, so I self-medicate a little – “ Enjolras snorted, and Jehan burst in before he could continue – “Okay, here’s some of the notes from History I borrowed, thank you!” -, and pressed a bundle of papers and an iPad into Enjolras’ hands, which were flexing dangerously. Okay, he hadn’t been this mad since Marius had tried to defend his own family. _Way to go,_ Grantaire chastised himself; _you’ve pissed off the one guy you actually_  - but he stopped his brain before it could complete that thought.

 He shrugged though, gulped down his laced coffee, and retrieved Éponine’s joint from behind his ear, lighting it in almost the same (very well-practiced) movement. Joly winced, but Grantaire turned before he could get a lecture on how it could cause certain death and probably AIDS (because Joly was obsessed with AIDS, more so than the official “at risk” gay guy. He had given Grantaire _condoms_ before now. Seriously. And a lecture.).

 He whistled as he left the flat (badly through the joint) but he didn’t stop shaking with a frankly bizarre mix of lust and excitement, until he’d found his whiskey (none of that whisky muck for him) and allowed it to calm him down. He got to class ten minutes early. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know? Like I know the ending I want but the stuff in between is changeable, so if you want something to happen and I'm cool with it, I shall do your bidding. If it works. So yes, hit me up 
> 
> (and yeah I have no idea who beat Grantaire up either. It is a mystery to me as well)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruminations of a slightly stoned and not yet sober mind, when being forced to do art against his will.

Sitting in class, idly watching the dust motes spiral in the sunlight, Grantaire doodled on a scrap of paper. He had some project or other to do, but if he started it he wouldn’t finish anyway, so (he thought) there would be no point. Sadly, this wasn’t a view shared by the rest of the class (since he’d drag down their averages to languish in the gutter with his), nor by his teacher. He’d managed to hide the rest of joint (definitely good weed though – he’d have to talk to Éponine again about that) in a small, hollowed-out area of his desk, which was where he kept most of his secrets. Combeferre had insisted on checking the rooms for drugs and “paraphernalia” before his father – a royalist, of all things – had visited, and so his usual hiding places (behind the brackets of ancient radiators, inside pillows) had been taken from him. 

They’d even “had to confiscate” his bong pipe, but not before Jehan had literally tried to make it into an instrument. 

So, apart from the actual and evil cull of his liberties, he’d been left much to his own devices by the group; they’d found that his sarcasm would become cruel when he was drunk (all the time, really), and they didn’t mind too much, because Bahorel would find disgusting waistcoats and wear them. And they tolerated the paint he’d always be covered with, the sharp smell of white spirit, the patterns daubed onto the ceiling when he’d smoked too much and couldn’t sleep. He worked, but not for his teacher; for himself, which was infinitely more dangerous. 

He’d started to notice that he was becoming infected by the ideas of the others. Enjolras (although Grantare was unsure if he was a history student, political science, or just a bit strange) shone with a fervour that he himself could never replicate – without the help of a bottle of vodka. The other students glimmered as well, united by their beliefs and their sheer bloody-minded optimism that something could change (he found a draft of a pamphlet behind the sofa the other day, seriously), and Grantaire was the darkness, casting shadow and writing in doubt; sometimes he wondered why he bothered getting out of bed, or dunking his head under the tap to sober himself up, or looking at himself in the mirror as he sank further into himself. But then he’d look outside the classroom window, and see Enjolras talking to one of the professors about the rights of man, or the rights of women for that matter (for he believed in both, the glorious fucker) and suddenly he was illuminated.

Or maybe he just smoked too much pot. 

So that’s why when he did paint, in the dark before the dawn, there would be a light in his paintings, and when he talked, the cynic would sometimes give way to glorious rapture; he’d started to believe in something other than the bottom of a bottle. He still drank, of course; he still did everything to numb himself – because he was a fuck-up and he was killing himself slowly (because after the last attempt he’d lost his appetite for theatricals) so that nobody could see. 

He’d hoped that nobody had noticed, anyway – but of course, Jehan and Combeferre had. They’d sat him down and asked him how he was feeling, and he’d accidentally told them the truth, his tongue loosened by what might have been brandy. They’d probably been alerted to the fact that he’d been pinching out the candle that he’d been looking at (for half an hour – definitely needed to smoke less pot) until red welts were raised on his fingers and calluses were forming, and then lighting it with the battered lighter (inscribed with “R” – he’d stolen it from the last guy he’d fucked, who’d probably been called Robert or Ron or something) he carried around as a safety net. 

 

So anyway, apparently that meant he needed a “minder”, for some reason, especially when there were exams. They’d accepted that he’d drink himself into oblivion for fun or pain or anything or nothing, and as such they’d help him to look after his cat (but really it had just wandered into his apartment and mewed until he gave it the least sour milk he had) and bring him home from bars, and tell creeps to “go away” (okay, so that was mostly Jehan – the others would use actual swear words. Shocking). To this end, he'd more-or-less moved in with the others, in the ramshackle building they'd taken over, but he still had a lock on his door, and there was only one key - until Enjolras, mentioning something about fire safety, had had another copy made, which he'd kept himself. Okay.

So as he sat, staring now at the way the light fell on a patch of wall, he realised that les Amis were as good a reason to be alive as any, and that since he was by now too apathetic to actually kill himself, he might as well find a niche. And he’d turned into a fucking fairy, wow. 

“Mr. Grantaire, am I boring you again?” He was jolted out of his reverie, squinting at the teacher – not his usual teacher, who had cried after he’d fucked her because she thought he had AIDS or something (and although he’d tried to tell her he’d been tested, she still cried and asked him if he really really liked her and reminded him why he didn’t fuck girls), but a man – probably in his fifties, and his entire life was written on his face. “Oh, I’m not an art teacher, but Miss – “ he paused to check his notes – “Matelote has taken a leave of absence. And I’m the only one who’s free because some idiot decided to let off firecrackers in the library, again. My name’s Valjean (you probably missed that) and I’m the principal of the college. Seriously, you were given a welcome pack – “ he sighed, and cast his eyes to the heavens in disappointment at Grantaire's lack of interest in the fucking colour wheel, or whatever he was on about.

Grantaire recognised the name, and the voice (he had a vague memory of being told off for showing up to the library too drunk to see), and he realised that this was Cosette’s adopted father. Adoptive? He’d have to ask Feuilly, seeing as he’d managed to teach himself the finer points of grammar from a book. He checked that his joint was still hidden.   
“Sir, I have never been more interested in anything in my life. What were you saying again? I’m afraid I got carried away on a tide of emotion.” He grinned sardonically at the man, who frowned. “See me after class, Mr. Grantaire,” he ordered. And Grantaire had been in enough police cells to recognise the weary tone of one who upheld the law, or at least who too had spent a lot of time afoul of it. Curiouser and curiouser; he’d have to ask Marius if there were any backstory there. 

Grantaire nodded though, and slipped his phone out of his pocket under the desk. Three messages; one from Courfeyrac, one from an unknown number, and one from Joly. Courfeyrac’s consisted of an obscene joke and a demand for Mexican food and a trip to the Corinthe, the unknown one said “It’s Éponine here, you up for the Corinthe tonight? I need some chemical interference”, and Joly’s was a reminder to start drinking decaf coffee and put “more milk and less vodka” into what he drank, which was a hopeless crusade if he’d ever seen one. 

He grinned at the screen, sent “sure, I’ll be pregaming if you need me” to all three messages, and was on his feet before the bell went for the end of the lesson, battered rucksack swinging behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they make it to the bar. But will they get anything done? (not really despite Enjolras' best efforts)
> 
> stop fucking singing, Courfeyrac

He’d been slouched on the battered sofa inside the Corinthe, trying to smoke without being spotted by the eagle-eyed landlord, when everyone else had burst through the door at the same time. A tinny rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun” was issuing from the ancient jukebox next to the payphone (and seriously, what century was this?), which it had been doing for the two hours that he’d been sitting there.

Joly and Bossuet had come in first, with a girl. He frowned slightly; he’d not met their girl before (yes, that was how he’d heard her being referred to by Bahorel), and she was long-legged and caramel-skinned and stunning. Way too interesting, surely, for Joly (who had just retrieved his antiseptic handspray from his pocket), and the luck that Bousuet would have needed…

 She grinned at him, green eyes sparkling, and thrust a hand forwards. “I’m Musichetta, which judging by the number of bottles _strewn_ around you, you won’t be able to say for a couple of hours. Grantaire? I’ve heard a lot about you,” and she grinned again, took a glass of fucking _rosé_ from Joly’s hand and then literally pulled a cupcake out of her bag. Like it was a totally fucking normal thing to take on a night out – “She bakes a lot,” Bousuet whispered, and she lightly touched his face before starting to eat the cupcake.

“I’m too sober for this shit,” Courfeyrac announced, and flopped down beside Grantaire on the sofa, reaching for a bottle he’d not yet touched. He leaned back to take a swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and then started to cough. “Well, boys” – a sharp slap from Éponine had him rubbing the back of his head – “and girls who are needlessly violent, we can’t stay here. The wine tastes like cat piss. And the reason why I know what it tastes like is that when I was sixteen, this girl’s brother made me drink it in revenge for fucking his sister. And then he tried kiss me and sobbed something about how much he loved her. I reckon he was messed up. Someone tell Freud,” he started laughing and then burst into song (it sounded horrifyingly like Rihanna), and Combeferre frowned.

 “Hang on, shut up you lot, and Courf stop fucking singing! – where’s Enjolras? Or Marius, for that matter? Seeing as you live with him – “ Courfeyrac muttered something about “well he propositioned _me_ ”, but looked around as well – didn’t you think to bring him?”  He shoved a plate of what looked like nachos towards Grantaire. “Sorry to be doing a Joly, but you’re going to hate yourself in the morning. Eat something,” and Joly nodded and passed him a cupcake as well.

 Grantaire poured vodka onto the nachos and started eating with a somewhat unsurprising gusto. Jehan watched him for a few seconds, and then turned his (worryingly ribbon-festooned) head aside. “Okay, I thought we had something important to discuss? This is actually distressing. Think of Joly’s poor imagination, he’ll be thinking of poor Grantaire’s liver –“ but Grantaire offered him a tilted smile and he rolled his eyes, and then spotted Enjolras and Marius coming through the door.

 “About time, Grantaire’s practically comatose and Courfeyrac is telling us about his sexual experiences –“  Feuilly, who had up until now been making origami swans out of the napkins, leapt up and smacked Courf’s head in the process. He grinned ruefully, and continued miming.

 Marius grinned at everyone, before almost muttering a hello. “Oi, Pontmercy, we thought we’d got you over this “I’m a shy nervous wreck with a tiny cock” thing – “ but someone had thrown something at Courf and Enjolras was standing in front of them all.

 “Okay you lot, I’m not sure if you’ve heard but there’s a protest going on fairly soon that you might be interested in –“ Grantaire sat up, and listened. This was the first actual thing the group had done, apart from order vast amounts of pizza, that sounded vaguely political; he looked at Enjolras and tried to make his gaze neutral. 

 “And do none of you read your emails? Or check the Facebook? I made it so we could _communicate_ about things like this, not so that you could send each other pictures of puppies – “ and here a warning glare was directed towards Jehan – “and it would be lovely if you could check it once in a while.” He glanced around the room; Musichetta, Joly and Bousuet were feeding each other cake and whispering what he hoped were sweet nothings. Courfeyrac was on the phone to someone, and saying “darling” over and over; Marius was flicking through Facebook (although not on the group he’d made), and the others were engaged in trying to flip beer mats.

 “It’s only, you know, a gay rights thing. Some Christians of the wrong sort have been making a lot of noise and we’re going to go and shut them up,” and everyone looked at him, and then their eyes flickered as one (which was fucking terrifying) to Grantaire, who had given up on flipping beer mats and was drinking from a wine bottle.

“Look, we don’t have to do the looking thing every time someone mentions gayness, do we? I’m not the only one in here,” and he looked pointedly at Joly and Bousuet, who both nodded at Musichetta. She grinned and grabbed both their hands, and then looked coolly back at Grantaire. “Okay, but I’m not going on any protest march. It’s never going to get better; that campaign was bullshit and it changed nothing. I’m always going to get snide comments at the hospital about HIV, or have my parents try to set me up with girls because they don’t believe my “teenage rebellion” even though I’m twenty-fucking-three, and quite frankly I don’t see the point. About any of it,” and he’d stood, swaying slightly, to address the whole group.  

Enjolras had moved forwards as well, and was looking from one corner of the ceiling to another. The triangle where his (organic, Fairtrade and probably charitable) shirt had fallen open, was glistening under a sheen of sweat; Grantaire was transfixed, even when Enjolras attacked again. “If you’re just going to be negative –“ at which point Éponine had come from the toilet with another girl and a Monopoly set. “We’re playing Monopoly!” she cried, and then saw Marius, faltered, and shoved the set onto the table.

 “Erm, Éponine, we’re too busy – “ she frowned Combeferre into silence, ignoring his faint smile, and lit the cigarette already dangling from her life. Joly shuddered, and Musichetta rubbed his back soothingly; she turned to Éponine. “And who is this, my dear?”

Marius had stiffened in his seat, and thrust his phone out of sight; Grantaire turned to look at him and realised it must be Cosette. And he’d probably been creeping on her Facebook profile – and everyone was pretty sure that if he found so much as a hanky of hers, he’d probably sleep with it. Marius, Grantaire reflected, was a true example of why romance and love are things we tell ourselves at night when we’re lonely.

 The girl – Cosette – smiled, and walked straight up to Marius. He stood and stuttered, before Éponine rolled her eyes, pressed a bottle into Cosette’s hand, and said “Cosette – Marius. Marius – Cosette,” and, patting Marius on the head (okay so Grantaire must had missed her drinking), turned and squeezed inbetween Courf and Grantaire.

 She blew smoke into both their faces, and kissed Grantaire on the cheek before passing him a joint. “I rolled it already simply because watching drunkards try to roll joints is one of the most soul-destroying things I have ever seen –“ and then grabbed the dog from the Monopoly set and announced “First one to get Park Lane and Mayfair gets to make a sexist comment and have me explain why it’s wrong and why you’re a fucking idiot,” and threw the dice.

 They formed into teams, because whoever the hell invented the game had not catered for a rabble like them. Joly, Musichetta and Bouseut were the hat, because “anyone can wear a hat,” Musichetta announced mysteriously. Bahorel and Feuilly got the iron because Feuilly likes “making folds in things” (and when did everyone get fucking crazy, Grantaire wondered?); Combeferre and Courf had gone for the car based on “our shared obsession with either Grand Theft Auto or like navigating or whatever the hell Combeferre does for fun”; Jehan had petitioned Éponine to let him share the dog using a sonnet but was shouted down and went for the thimble. Marius and Cosette (who had endeared herself to the group by hitting Courfeyrac when he starting singing Britney Spears) had chosen the thimble too, and so formed a team of three (Marius had never played the game – as Combeferre said, “how the fuck”), and that left Enjolras and Grantaire, grudgingly accepting to play as the ship.

  Despite some arguments about paying income tax, the game had settled down nicely; Cosette had won for her team Mayfair and Park Lane, and then revealed her Fem Soc badge, at which point Éponine had clapped (apparently they’d known each other as kids, it was learnt).

 Courfeyrac, watching Enjolras and Grantaire bicker over the idea of paying rent for the right to walk down a public street, murmered “this ship sails itself,” and then had slipped Grantaire another joint without Enjolras commenting. Grantaire, in turn, had managed to stop fantasising about licking that triangle of neck (nearly, anyway) enough to spot that Jehan was buying properties based on _colour_ and _how it looked_ and so had been able to buy the whole set of greens. Enjolras brought a hotel, muttering all the while about “fairness” and “the people” and possibly something in Latin.

 Their ship won by thousands. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Éponine have some decisions to make; Courf definitely fancies Jehan, and Enjolras gets some sleep for once. 
> 
> The group hear about a new cause, mainly because Jehan forgot to tell them he wasn't confident enough about his poetry yet to share.

The air in the café the next morning (for they’d been dragged to the Musain after Madame Huchelop had discovered the graffiti that Courf had scrawled on the wall, apparently) was thick with smoke and tinged with regret; Grantaire, waking slowly, looked around himself. Éponine and Combeferre were asleep in one corner, her hand resting on his arm; Jehan was sitting up, but Courfeyrac leaned against him snoring gently, fingers tangled together in the ribbons that had fallen from Jehan’s hair. Bahorel slept against the wall, knuckles bruised from fighting imaginary foes in his dreams, and Marius was sprawled out on the floor, his fingers inches from Cosette’s hand, which had slipped off the sofa (he must have been chivalrous, and okay, who was surprised?). Joly and Bossuet were curled round Musichetta, their hands linked. Feuilly had fallen asleep with his iPhone still playing (a podcast about some Polish revolution, one of his speciality topics).

 Enjolras was sitting at the only table that hadn’t been shoved aside to make space for people to sleep, with his laptop and various newspapers in front of him. Grantaire must have made a sound, because Enjolras turned to look at him, and then pushed a glass of water across his table.

 Grantaire shuffled over to the table and gulped the water in one, nodding his thanks. The silence in the café, apart from the snuffles Joly was making (he had another cold and was desperately trying to stop Bossuet especially from getting it), seemed to stretch, and Enjolras turned back to his work. Grantaire angled his head to read the papers; they were in many different languages, but he slid one of the English ones round to read it.

 It proclaimed in large, bold letters – “Equality is for everyone!” and then, below it, “Kings and queens and nobility have been the exception for long enough,” which wasn’t quite as catchy. Hopefully it was a rough draft, or something. He leaned forwards to try to read the article, but Enjolras snatched it back.

“I thought you didn’t care for politics?” he asked, and moved his bag (covered with various charitable badges and slogans) from the chair next to him. Grantaire slid across to sit by him, keeping his eyes fixed on the dented wooden table.

 “I don’t, much. Rights, wrongs, life, death, republics, kingdoms – there is one thing I’m sure of, and that’s my next drink. You see, I accept that drink is a constant. Other people lie to themselves – they clutch their heads in the mornings and say “oh, I’m never drinking again!” but then the next weekend they’re back at the bar, back to the bottle. But I don’t do that because it’s the only progress I believe in.” He paused, and Enjolras leaned backwards in his chair to stretch out. His shirt slid up; Grantaire looked away, and then gestured to the sofa he’d woken up on.

 “When was the last time you slept, then? I don’t think I’ve actually seen you sleep since that time you got knocked out for spitting at that wanker, at the transgender rights protest, and that was months ago _and_ accidental –“ but he was interrupted by the scraping of a chair as Enjolras stood up blearily and walked the few steps to the sofa. He slumped down onto the battered cushions and curled up. Within minutes, the slight frown lines on his face (probably caused by talking to Grantaire, to be honest) had smoothed out, and his breathing had become slow and even.

 Éponine had stood up, disturbed by Grantaire’s haranguing, and sat down in the seat Enjolras had vacated. She was smoking (and she was the only person he’d ever met who smoked as much as he did), and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Love sucks, huh?” He twisted to look at her, and then lit a cigarette of his own, hands fumbling slightly.

 “Who do you – “ and then he remembered how she vanished that time they’d met Marius on the stairs, and how she smiled so widely when they fell asleep holding hands, and how nice she was to Cosette – and he went quiet. “But I thought you were seeing Montparnasse? I didn’t know he was in town. He – “ and she sniffed once, before running a hand through her hair.

 “I’m not – I mean, I don’t love him. He says he loves me, but really I think he’s lonely, and he wants to fuck someone he knows rather than some stranger in a club. Also, he’s got the best weed in town, and I get a discount. Okay, that makes me sound harsh.” Grantaire nodded at her, and she flushed slightly before carrying on. “I like him, as a friend, and we used to do stuff when we were younger, and we do stuff now from time to time when we’re drunk and horny.”

 She sniffed again, and furiously wiped her eyes. “We both know that it’s like that. We argue a lot – we’ve both hit each other before, but then we have hate sex… I don’t really know why I screw around with him. And then Combeferre likes me, or so I’ve heard -” Grantaire looped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to him. She wrinkled her nose.“You smell of weed – Enjolras won’t be happy, and Joly apparently did some research and it makes depression and stuff worse – “ but he just hugged her again as she sobbed silently against his shoulder.

He patted her shoulder gingerly. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Ép. And yeah, I think I know where you’re coming from, especially when Montparnasse is concerned.” She drew her head back from his shoulders, and frowned slightly. “You and him – “ Grantaire snorted in amusement, and rolled his eyes.

 “So I went through a stage, pretty soon after I met you lot, when I was desperate for anything to fill my brain with twilight (not the shitty film, it is a figure of speech, you cretin), and I didn’t have much money so I paid him in blowjobs. He kept his eyes closed the whole time and pretended I was somebody else. Actually, we were both pretending he was somebody else. And yeah, I didn’t know he was around.” He shrugged, and her eyes narrowed.

“I could pay him in blowjobs. I could get free weed. Man, this is inequality; we should tell the gang about the unfairness of this – “ and then she burst out laughing, and so did he. She wiped her eyes again, and quietened. “I – well, I think you understand me a lot. Anyone with eyes can see how you feel about Enjolras, apart from him, because he wouldn’t know what love looks like, would he? I mean, even if you draped yourself in a tricolour, only a tricolour, and did a striptease, he’d get concerned about the flag being desecrated. He’s got a one track mind, that boy.” She handed Grantaire a bottle from the floor, and he took a long swallow before handing it back.

 “Yeah, but you’re in no better place. Marius actually talked to Cosette. He – whom, I have been told, once vomited on a girl he liked because he was so nervous – talked to her in real words in the correct language and everything. He wasn’t even drunk – “ and she swatted him on the back of the head. “Maybe that’s an idea,” she said, and put the bottle down on the floor, out of reach.

 He looked at her, askance.

 “No, I’m serious, R. If we both stop drinking, and stop with the drugs (because seriously, ketamine is overrated even if it is cheap), we might do better. Like I heard what you were saying about the whole drink being constant thing or whatever, and I don’t think Enjolras was too impressed.” She glanced over to where Enjolras was curled up on the sofa, and her face softened. “I’ve never even seen him drunk, or smoking, and it’s common knowledge he’s never fucked anyone… So we’re going to have to develop a game plan or something.” She looked back over to Grantaire, and he shrugged.

 “Fuck it, I can give it a go. I need addiction, though. When I was a kid it was art, and then when I realised that I could drink it was that. After that it became carving patterns into my arms and legs – “ she flinched, and put her hand on his shoulder – “and then drugs, and drink again.” He smiled bleakly. “But I suppose, I’ll try. For you. Not for him,” and he gestured with his thumb to Enjolras. “But I can’t promise it will be successful, and I’m not going cold turkey. I can cut down.”

 She smiled at him, and then leaned over and nudged Joly with his foot. He moaned, but unwound himself from Bossuet and Musichetta, and looked over towards the table. Grantaire tilted his head at the empty chairs, and Joly rolled his eyes before standing up and making his way towards the table.  On his way up, however, he caught his foot on the piano stool which for some reason, Courfeyrac had moved to the centre of the room, and it fell to the floor with a crash. The whole room startled into activity.

 Jehan _mewled like a kitten_ and jerked awake, Courf’s fingers tugging on his hair as he moved, and they both half-crawled (still joined at the hair-finger junction, because there really were so many fucking ribbons in his hair) to the table. “Thank fuck it’s Saturday,” Courf grinned, before starting to free his hand. “Prouvaire, you have the most ridiculous hair. Hey, that rhymes! I’m a poet and I know it,”  and ignored Bahorel’s pointed eyebrow raise. Only Enjolras stayed where he was.

 “What’s the occasion?” asked Joly, taking one of the waters that Enjolras had poured for his lieutenants the night previously.

 Éponine turned her gaze away from where Cosette was taking slurps absent-mindedly from Marius’ orange juice, and announced that “Grantaire and I are going to cut down on our drinking and drugs. But weed obviously isn’t a drug, so we can still have that one pleasure left to us – “ and Grantaire put a hand on her shoulder to calm her.

 There was a stunned silence, and Joly leaned forwards. “That sounds like it might be healthy,” and Combeferre shot him a warning look. He nodded slightly, and looked at Grantaire. “I think you can do it. Cut down, I mean. We can help you, because seriously we don’t want a repeat of that time you quit drinking for about a week and then drank all the absinthe we had, and totalled your car…” Combeferre flicked him on the back of the head, and smiled at the two of them. “We’ll be here for you,” and Éponine nodded.

  Jehan looked at Courf’s watch (hovering around his ear, because he hadn’t bothered to free himself quite yet), and sat bolt upright in his chair. “Damn, I’ve got a class!” and he stood, dragging Courf up with him, who cursed and said “On a Saturday? I somehow don’t think so.” but Jehan muttered something about it being it a “poetry thing with people,” to which Courf nodded, and then Enjolras sat up and said “Which people?”,which made Jehan turn a shade a of red to match the ridiculous waistcoat that Bahorel was wearing. 

 Feuilly walked over to them then. “It’s for street kids, street artists. Orphans, refugees, that sort of thing. Mainly for children. Today, I think we’re doing a mural? I help them with teaching (and sometimes Combeferre comes) but I also teach them origami, and Jehan does poetry and writing.” He shrugged, and then said “It’s run by an old priest, Father Mabeuf, I think. He donated all his books to Jehan to teach with, and it’s pretty fun.”

 The sun was coming through the curtains, and Enjolras clapped his hands. “Who else is free today? This sounds like our kind of thing – why did nobody tell me about this?”, and he smiled at the group. “Grantaire, if you’re going to be cutting back on the drinking, you’ll need a new distraction, right? How about that mural?” and Grantaire looked up, hardly daring to believe that he was being spoken to without judging, and being offered cheerful words. He smiled back at Enjolras, and said “If they’ll let me help out – “

 “You don’t need any sort of qualifications, and the whole child-protection thing? Courf sorted it for all of us when I first heard about it, just in case. I mean, it’s not an official thing; it’s just people who want to change their worlds being allowed to do so.” Combeferre was putting on his coat and a pair of glasses (well, he’d kept that quiet), and he grabbed a bag and threw it to Grantaire. Inside were paintbrushes and acrylics, and oils, all the equipment he’d lost over the course of the months. 

 The group – the _abc_ , as Jehan had called them – met in the city, in a courtyard that was bright with chalk-pictures and different languages being spoken by the children who were wearing more paint than was on their brushes. Éponine gasped, and ran forwards to hug one of the boys – a blonde kid with a jacket similar to Enjolras’, and bruise-like smudges of paint on his face, and when Courf saw the kid, he shouted “Gavroche!” and swung him up onto his shoulders, laughing.

Grantaire pulled out his favourite paintbrush, slipped his hip-flask out his pocket, and smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously kids don't do ketamine


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire actually is involved in something that is flowery, which isn't actually Jehan's fault, for once. There is a Something between Courf and Jehan; Enjolras finds out about a poorly-kept secret and then almost becomes a damsel in distress. Grantaire remembers he owns a car. Who knew?   
>  (not very much) blood is donated. Talk of self-harm just so you know.

The flash of sun that had pierced the clouds earlier, had grown to full, blazing rays; the sky was blue in the puddles from the previous night’s rain, and Grantaire was painting again. The white wall, which apparently belonged to the orphanage (and Feuilly had hugged the man who ran it with a fierce pride), was an explosion of colour. Bahorel had confiscated the black paint though – he’d told Grantaire that “there’s been enough darkness for one winter,” and so the children had painted wild rainbows spiralling across bright butterflies; lions and tigers roared outside open cages, because Gavroche had been listening to what Combeferre told him about liberty; sunflowers bloomed on tilted stems and bent to kiss the grass that was blowing in an invisible wind. Bousuet had showered the heavens with glitter, and each star in that bright sky sparkled with a different colour.

 Jehan was leaning against the wall, scribbling furiously in a notebook, and shouting out ideas to the children that swarmed on ladders and boxes to reach their canvas. But Grantaire was slouching behind the shed (and oh, that took him back to high school) smoking, and attempting to waft the smoke away from him, because seriously, Enjolras had a nose like a bloodhound. These were some weird clove cigarettes that Courf had “procured” from Jehan (and seriously, even Grantaire had seen the way Jehan’s eyes spoke when he looked at Courf; their blossoming love was as subtle as an elephant in a tea-shop), since his had been confiscated mysteriously.

  Enjolras rounded the corner just as Grantaire scrubbed the butt into the drain, and his blue eyes narrowed. “You’re smoking near the kids?” His voice was neutral; obviously he didn’t want a fight, but Grantaire (who’s fists had been clenching in restraint ever since Feuilly had taken his hipflask – and also taken a picture and laughed because “seriously, you say you’re no hipster? Your flask says “YOLO” on it. And I can’t believe you made me say that. R, cynical atheist and nilihilistic pessimist you may be, but that is no excuse” but pocketed the flask anyway) just shrugged, even though he’d been careful enough that the smoke was being hurled from the alleyway by a fierce wind.

 Enjolras rolled his eyes, and then pulled his phone from his pocket to bring up an event. “Oh, I’m not sure if you’re a functioning part of the Facebook group” – and waved the screen in his face. Grantaire reached out to steady his hand, and froze, fingers wrapped around Enjolras’ wrist; Enjolras simply pushed the phone into his other hand.

 “Blood donation – Joly’s putting us up to it. He can’t do it because he had a blood transfusion when he was six– he was trying to take his temperature and ended up inadvertently stabbing himself in the mouth or something, god knows – but we said we’d go along. He’s taking blood, and you know what he feels about that. So, as Feuilly said, he’d rather mess us up than poor strangers  - it’s Combeferre’s day off, so he’ll be giving it too.”

“I grovel at your feet,” Grantaire said, straight-faced; Enjolras’ eyes narrowed like a cat. He exhaled, and slowly disentangled his fingers from Grantaire’s, before slipping out the alley. 

Grantaire stared after him, and his hand felt too heavy to hold up alone.

 

  They all piled onto the train to go to the hospital, because recently Combeferre had been “educating” everyone on global warming; not that they didn’t know and care already, but when Bahorel found a documentary about the Arctic ice caps, Jehan cried – and suddenly it became much more important. Grantaire’s car was also at the hospital, and had been for a week, since the last time he’d overdone it slightly and had needed his stomach pumped – not a pleasant experience.

 Feuilly had stolen a book about the Egyptians from Combeferre (because apparently his fascination with paper had started when he was seven and forced to make papyrus in school) and insisted on reading aloud the parts that dealt with how the Egyptians would treat orphans. Éponine had started to flick bits of paper at Combeferre, trying to hit his glasses (which he didn’t wear often, because – and this is a quote – he thought they made his eyes look “squinty, and I can’t be untrustworthy when I’m teaching, even for medicine”) with each one; he was trying to frown at her but failing miserably.

 Bossuet and Musichetta had left a seat in between them, even though Joly  was at the hospital, and they were passing round hand sanitiser (officially to get the paint off, but also because quite frankly, they too-often indulged in “sordid” pastimes, as Enjolras had once said -for he was could be as cruel as he was beautiful) and muffins. The muffins were vegan, probably on Bahorel’s insistence (because whilst he went out looking for fights just to “keep his nails short”, nothing affected him more than fluffy baby animals; or so Éponine had said).

 Grantaire was sat across from Jehan and Courf – between which _something_ was certainly happening, not that they’d said anything - who both had lines of writing looped around their hands, in Jehan’s neat script. It looked as if Courf had been persuaded to paint his nails (or, given that they had tiny panda faces on them, Jehan had done it), and Cosette and Marius were sat next to them. They were talking loudly – not just with words (how they all met) but with looks and delicate touching of cheeks; it was adorable and repulsive and cheesy all at the same time. 

 Only Enjolras was standing, swaying with the motion of the train as it clattered through the city, his eyes fixed on the patch of blue sky outside the window. It had turned colder that afternoon, and he’d buttoned his red shirt up to his neck. Grantaire tilted his head slightly to admire (from an artistic point of view, of course), the way the muscles in his back and ass moved to keep him standing; his jeans were unfairly tight (he’d muttered something about less material means more for everyone else, but in fact everyone knew he could be vain – and with an ass like that, nobody blamed him) and for once, he wasn’t talking. He looked like marble, cold and beautiful; his eyes fixed on Grantaire’s suddenly and then his gaze turned to the group.

 The train pulled to a halt, and his legs shifted almost obscenely, and Grantaire’s mind was filled with images of Enjolras splayed out wantonly – but he forced the images away in the same way that he forced a smile now, dragging his feet as he walked behind the others. He’d put his coat on today, the one he’d hidden some emergency weed in, and he pulled it around his shoulders. It smelled of him – whiskey and occasionally brandy, and his cheap cigarettes (sometimes even Lambert and Butler), and the sharp sting of sweat because he was a fucking slob – and it had been bought for him by his deadbeat parents when he was about sixteen; he hated the assosciation with them but sometimes, when nobody was looking, he’d stroke the green wool of it, to remind himself where he came from and never to go back. His thoughts wandered, and his throat ached for something stronger than the iced tea Feuilly had made, but then the hospitals doors swung open with that strangely menacing hum they always had.

 

 He’d never given blood before, never really been sober enough to do it, but he hadn’t had a drink since the day before – someone had taken to emptying his hip-flask, and he was sober and hating it; he flopped down on one of the orange plastic chairs next to Musichetta to wait.

 “You’d have thought they’d make the chairs more comfortable,” she said, chucking him a folder of information, and her accent (which he’d still not placed) made the words lilt like waves. He snickered, because he’d become used to sleeping on these chairs, when dragged in unwillingly by friends or family or strangers who got concerned when, mid-fuck, he’d stop breathing… he looked around at the staff and wondered how many had seen him half-naked, in someone else’s flip-flops, but couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

 “Jehan, what do you reckon? The chairs are probably a metaphor, or something? for like, the human condition,” he called to Jehan, who was engrossed in a painting on the wall, and who merely waved his hand and continued scribbling on his jeans. All his jeans – whether lavender, lemon-yellow, duck-egg blue – were covered with writing, because he’d “run out of skin but not of ideas”, but now he had Courf (who was eating an egg sandwich in an improbably obnoxious manner) to write on – and about?

 Cosette frowned at Grantaire, and went over to tell the waiting medics her name. Marius sighed, and rolled up his sleeves to follow her.

 Grantaire went to roll his own sleeves up, and an almost-imperceptible intake of breath from the other side of the room stopped him. He looked up, and Enjolras was staring at the scars that latticed up his forearms and striped over his biceps, eye widened in shock. Grantaire pulled his sleeves down again, and fiddled with the button on his cuff until he peeked behind him to see that Enjolras had gone. He sighed with his entire body, but started to flip through the booklet he’d been given.

 “Are you HIV positive, or do you think you might be HIV positive?”

“Have you ever injected or been injected with illegal or non-prescribed drugs?”

“Have you ever been given drugs or money for sex?”

 He flipped the booklet closed again, and stood up, handing it back to Musichetta. “Anyone for coffee? Irish coffee, if I can find my hip flask?” but then Enjolras came back into the room, and looked at him, before gesturing with a wave of his hand. Grantaire rolled his eyes (because it was pretty much his default reaction to everything), but followed him down the corridor.

 “I can’t give blood, you know,” Grantaire said, trying to avert the conversation he knew must be coming. Enjolras’ eyes flickered over him, questioning, and he grinned ruefully. “The drugs, the unprotected sex, the whole sex-for-drugs thing, and I think the tattoo’s a bit dodgy too – “ and Enjolras’ face fell, his guard let down so quickly it was almost funny. “I don’t mind, though. Never was much of a fan of needles, no matter what they’re for,” and he nodded at Enjolras and turned to go.

 “Wait a second, R – “ and he stopped, because Enjolras never called him _R_ , and certainly never had that note of pleading in his voice, and because his hand was wrapped around his arm with the strength of a vice. “The scars, they’re old, right? And no snark, please?” and this note of uncertainty was new as well, but he just nodded.

 “They’re – I was about seventeen, and I couldn’t buy alcohol yet and I was too much of a wuss to buy drugs, so I had to do something self-destructive. And that’s what I did, and it helped me –“

Enjolras was frowning, and he slid the shirt-sleeve up to look at the scars. “It helped you? How – “ but then he was tracing the faint white marks with the tips of his fingers (presumably unconsciously) and Grantaire almost forgot to breathe. “You’re – Grantaire, I know you don’t have a high opinion of me,” and when Grantaire opened his mouth to protest, Enjolras hurried on – “but the fact that you are here right now is incredible. Seriously, you’ve lived twenty-three years without breaking; you have bent – “ and Grantaire tried his hardest not to snort with laughter at the apt analogy because that was definitely Enjolras’ _serious face_ – “but you are here. I’m not sure how much you care about anything, but I do know that you have lived more in your life than I have. And yet you survive still.” He paused, fingers still tracing the scars, but it was no longer soothing; Grantaire’s heartbeat was drumming a tattoo on his ribcage.

“I know we may not always see eye to eye on anything – or ever, actually – but you are a part of les amis, a part of the family, almost. And family means nobody gets left behind – “ and now Grantaire was laughing, because Enjolras, the marble lover of liberty, watching Disney films? And Enjolras was laughing too, eyes squeezed shut, and Grantaire stopped laughing just to look at him, and to sneakily twist his arm so that for the second time that day, their fingers were interlaced. Enjolras smiled at him – not sarcastic, but as if he couldn’t help himself. He would probably ruffle his hair if he got the chance.

“I need to go and donate my pint, but we’ll talk afterwards, okay?” and the way he said it wasn’t a suggestion; Grantaire’s stomach roiled (probably about the idea of having to talk about his fucking _feelings_ but also because the vegan muffin had tasted off) and he just watched Enjolras extract himself and stride off. He didn’t just walk – it was probably non-revolutionary to walk like a normal human being – and my god but those jeans were tight.

 He sloped back to the waiting room, where Éponine pounced. “What’s going on? What did you say? What did he say? Is there a something happening here?” because she knew unrequited love when she saw it, staring back from the mirror every day, and he let the corners of his mouth tilt up into half a smile. She gave him a questioning look, and he rolled his eyes to the heavens and flung himself into the seat next to her.

“He saw my scars,” he muttered, and her face softened, because she knew what he was talking about (having found being forced to partake in crimes and cons since she could walk rather difficult to deal with), and her hand crept into his, her bitten nails snagging on the threadbare jumper that he’d forced over his wrist. “He was okay about it, said I was a part of les amis, and that I was bent? I’m not really sure that he thought that metaphor through, but it’s the thought that counts. So.” and he smiled at her until she returned it.

 Just then, there was an almighty crash from the next room, and Combeferre (at least it sounded like him) yelled “Enjy!” (which, okay, was plain hilarious), and everyone turned to look. Enjolras had just fainted, face-first into a wall. Courf, who was hooked up next to Jehan, tried to muffle his laughter into his other arm, but a giggle escaped. Combeferre was desperately fumbling with the cap of a lancet, but before he or anyone else could help Enjolras (still out cold, and bleeding above his eyebrow), Grantaire had – to everyone’s surprise, including himself – put him neatly into the recovery position.

 Joly, who was looking green and staring at the freezer full of blood, said “I didn’t know you could do the recovery position,” and then remembered himself and hurried over to check if Enjolras would be okay. He pronounced that he would live, but don’t “let him drive” and that “he must have not eaten, the idiot,” and Musichetta reached out a hand to draw him closer to her.

 Grantaire pulled his car keys from his bag, and waved them at everyone. “I can drive him,” and as one, they raised an eyebrow.  “I’m sober! I haven’t had a drink since last night – and anyway I can drive better drunk that Bahorel can when all he’s had is lemon squash,” which was a fair point. Combeferre – the guide in occasions such as this – nodded, and within ten minutes Enjolras was in the passenger seat of Grantaire’s crappy Pinto, which he’d not realised was his until a fine had showed up in the post a few weeks ago. He was awake, but still a bit vague – and grumpy to boot, muttering under his breath about the state of the car. And okay, there were a few empty bottles and wrappers, but there was nothing to complain about – until something actually _died_ in there, he’d leave it.

 “Didn’t have you pegged down as the squeamish type,” Grantaire grinned, looking across at Enjolras.  He was rewarded with a glorious scowl. “Actually, I haven’t eaten today because when I was walking back from the shop (after buying a kilogramme of chocolate for Gavroche because Ép blackmailed me) with my breakfast, I saw a kid about his age begging. So I gave it to him.” He shrugged, and Grantaire felt a blush begin to spread over his cheeks.

 “Wait, what did she blackmail you about –“ but he looked over to see that Enjolras seemed to be asleep, his head tucked neatly between the seatbelt and the window pane – although he’d been fine ten seconds ago. He shrugged to himself in the mirror, and flicked the switch to turn the heating up. Joly had been very clear on keeping the “patient” warm. 

  He pushed his sleeve up again to look at the white marks, and glanced over at Enjolras, before dragging it back down over his hands again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is getting altogether too long.   
> I apologise again; these two give me such feelings and if Iwere to rush the whole thing it wouldn't be right. It would be wrong in fact. 
> 
> I slept in a carpark the other night so my brain is all over hte place.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras definitely doesn't suck his thumb in his sleep, and even when woozy can discuss the Arab Spring. Grantaire accidentally reveals something, Jehan is prevented from revealing something, and Enjolras might have a new Cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry

Enjolras was still sleeping when they pulled up outside their building, and he was frowning slightly as he dreamed, his mouth half-forming words. The traffic had been terrible, but Grantaire had found a packet of cigarettes in the glove compartment – although he’d not smoked them because forcing someone who was borderline unconscious to passive-smoke seemed a little cruel – and a bottle in the boot, which he’d taken one sip of and nothing more. The police knew him – too many arrests, the most recent being for some “offensive” graffiti (in reality only a little offensive) – and they knew Enjolras too, because when he showed up to as many protests (and organised as many), they soon learned that he was a force to be reckoned with, and one of the police officers had printed out a picture for the wall of the station (which apparently Inspector Javert had been furious over but could do nothing), mainly so that they could admire his hair. 

  Therefore, by the time they got back, Courf was standing on the pavement and almost bouncing up and down in his Converse. “How mighty are the fallen!” he said joyfully, before snapping a picture of Enjolras (who later would deny that he was sucking his thumb, despite the photographic evidence) and half-dragging Grantaire out the car to help Enjolras walk. “They took his blood sugar levels at the hospital and he was way too low to even consider giving blood, the idiot,” Courf said, half-frowning at Enjolras before skipping  - and someone had spent way too much time with Jehan – up the stairs.

 Grantaire frowned, and shook Enjolras awake, gently. Then, once he’d been persuaded to get out the car (and Jesus, concussion made him grumpy), he stood (wobbling) before Grantaire sighed and made him lean on his shoulder. “We’ll take the lift,” he said, and Enjolras exhaled in relief (and his breath tickled Grantaire’s neck); he said a quiet “thank you”, before grudgingly leaning onto Grantaire and starting to move.

 “You are such an idiot, you know that? Like seriously, who the fuck doesn’t eat before they give blood? Idiots, that’s who – “ and Enjolras nodded once (which shouldn’t have been so adorable and/or attractive because a submissive Enjolras was pretty bloody strange) before insisting that no, he was a _good person_ and he had a “rare blood type that people need and I need to save people” – and wow god complex, but Grantaire thought that maybe it was okay because Enjolras was moderately god-like, but he stopped himself imagining a statue of him in the British Museum because it might be slightly creepy.

 It was definitely creepy.

  The lift dinged, and with a firm “come on”, they made their way into Courf’s apartment – the closest one to the lift – and Enjolras slumped onto the sofa.

 Joly peered at him in concern (and so maybe driving had been a bad idea if the fucking public transport arrives before the car does) and said “He shouldn’t be this affected by only losing a pint of blood, no matter how low his blood sugar levels are. And he’s not diabetic, and I know he’d only do the whole collapsing thing if he felt really shit.” and Combeferre nodded at him, and polished his glasses on his jumper.

 Feuilly approached them, still slightly paint-streaked, and leaned forward to whisper in Enjolras’ ear. “The British Royal family costs around £134 million a year”, and at that Enjolras frowned and sat up.

 Bahorel gave Feuilly a round of applause, which made him turn scarlet, and Combeferre smiled and said “The press in Italy is only partly free,” and Enjolras frowned deeper and stood up – and this time he was barely wobbling.

And Musichetta yelled from the corner that “the USA doesn’t give paid maternity leave”, and Joly stroked her cheek before nodding along. A muscle in Enjolras’s jaw twitched.

 Jehan, who was entwined with Courf (and everyone knew that they’d been sort-of seeing each other but it wasn’t official), looked up and added “70, 000 people have been killed in the conflict with Syria, and there are over a million refugees,” before Enjolras held up his hands.

 “Okay, okay, I’m fine. Thanks for that – and seriously, the royal family cost that much?- but I’m going to be fine. Right, the question is – what are we going to do about all that?”

Grantaire snorted. “Yeah, like we can change things? We’re a bunch of students with laptops, nothing more. The world will never change because people like oppression – it keeps them in clothes and books and sweatshop phones – and it’s terrible, but it’s fucking ridiculous to think we can do anything about it,” and he paused to breathe. Enjolras’s face was starting to lose the pale sheen of sweat, and colour was coming into his cheeks.

 “Did you see that programme about Anonymous? They helped facilitate the Arab Spring by getting people online who had been shut off by the regime.  They helped to allow people to fight their oppressors, to overthrow dictatorships of forty years, to have free elections and democracy – and half of them are probably students with laptops – “ but Grantaire interrupted again.

 “Yeah, but look at them now. Look at Syria – civil war – and Egypt – Morsi has practically made himself a pharaoh. They’re no better off than they were under the regimes, they’re living in a reign of terror (and don’t look so surprised that I know my history) and they have nobody to trust when both sides are committing atrocities in the name of democracy or fascism or whatever is their name of the week.” and he was standing now, gesticulating with the bottle he’d liberated from the car, but trying hard not to drink it.

 Enjolras’s eyes blazed, but Combeferre rolled his eyes at Grantaire, before patting Enjolras on the back. “Ignore him, he’s just doing it to get a rise,” and at that Courf _giggled_ before being hit by Jehan (who then spent the next five minutes “kissing it better” in penance which would have been okay, had the ”grievous injury” not been to Courf’s _groin_ ) and Combeferre rolled his eyes at them because he knew what they were thinking and now he was too.

  In the corner where she usually sat, Éponine was having her hair braided by Bossuet and Musichetta, who had handed out muffins to everyone (and “yes, Bahorel, they are fucking vegan, stop asking me or I’ll get Joly to disinfect you”) and Éponine was silently watching Enjolras and Grantaire; they moved around each other like magnets, she decided ,magnets that desperately want to fight the (possibly very much one-sided) attraction thing but couldn’t help it – and she whispered this to Cosette, who told Marius.

 And then by evening, Jehan had written a villanelle about magnets (no names mentioned) and everyone realised that maybe there was something there, but Enjolras and Grantaire were nowhere to be found and somewhere (possibly once Cosette had produced the Baileys to widespread cheers) they had all forgotten where they’d gone.

  In actual fact, Enjolras had forced Grantaire to talk to him.

 “The scars, then,” he’d said, and Grantaire had looked up, eyes guarded. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, and I’m not going to pretend I understand because I’ve not gone through it. But there’s help – “ and at that Grantaire backed off against the wall.

 “I’ve tried help,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Ketamine is really good for depression, did you know that? It’s better than antidepressants and it’s more fun – “ but Enjolras was frowning again and talked over him.

  “That’s what I mean. Not just the scars (and you do promise they’re old, right?) but the drugs and the drink and the – “ and then he stopped, before visibly forcing himself to go on – “the unprotected sex, and Éponine told me about Montparnasse when she was drunk and crying over how he’s mean to her, so you can’t deny it.”

 Grantaire stopped, brain whirring. “Did I just become a Cause for you? Are you going to go to protests about how I shouldn’t be allowed to take drugs or drink or fuck around? That’s like, a censorship of my rights probably. The right to freedom of choice maybe?” and he’d drunk more of the whiskey than he’d thought, which usually he could handle but not today, and Enjolras put his hands on his shoulders.

 “You think I hate you, don’t you? You think I look at you with utter disgust. And yeah, sometimes I do, when you come back high as a kite or so drunk you can barely call me to call me names (but you still somehow manage it.) But I look at you, and I see a man who used to believe in things, who used to be an optimist, but became a disgruntled cynic. And I don’t know why that is, but I think you are capable of change.” He stopped, and Grantaire had to force his mind out of the gutter because hands and neck and smell of shampoo, and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a way that was somehow obscene, and Grantaire forced his eyes to the ceiling in an attempt to calm down.

 “Don’t roll your eyes,” Enjolras warned. “You need a cause, too. You don’t believe in anything – “

“I believe in you,” Grantaire muttered, suddenly horrifyingly brave, and Enjolras fell silent.

 The silence stretched, warped, and Enjolras took his hands off Grantaire’s shoulders; suddenly Grantaire was bereft, a drowning man on a sinking ship, and he watched as Enjolras walked back out to join the others.

 He was still sitting there in the dark when Jehan and Éponine came to find him. “Ignore him,” she commanded, and Jehan nodded at him. “He probably didn’t realise, you know what he’s like. And there’s no way he’s homophobic because – “ but Éponine shushed him and he shrugged. She bent down and crawled to lean against his knees.

 “He’s a complete shit and we hate him, okay? And you’re going to stop drinking that and come and laugh with us and pretend nothing has changed. Just because he’s practically emotionally constipated and generally shit, we must remember that he has had a hard life, and has faced many trials.” Jehan raised an eyebrow, but she carried on. “Yes, and one of those trials is being born a compete idiot.”

 Grantaire nodded, but was still frowning. “One of the trials is having a lazy, alcoholic fuck-up hanging around all the time. I mean, what do I contribute to the meetings, apart from to make people doubt? I’m the leaden weight that drags everyone down – “ and Jehan slapped him firmly on the cheek, which, fuck. 

 He gasped in shock, and scowled at the poet (but didn’t do anything in return because Courf would murder him), before speaking again. “Seriously, and he tries to be nice and I just go and fuck it up and now I’m drunk and crying and he’s in there and he’ll never look at me, and I fucking hate this feelings shit.” He pulled the lid off his bottle and took another long gulp, but his throat convulsed and he spat it back up again, whiskey mingling with the tears that coursed down his cheek and neck.

 “Calm the fuck down,” said Éponine, and he sniffed once before looking up at her through eyelashes spiked with tears. “Look, he’d be fucking lucky to have you. You are – “ and she broke off, but Jehan carried on.

 “You are possibly the bravest person I’ve met,” and he looked at both of them as he said it, and Grantaire realised he must know about the scars - and he wasn't surprised that he did, because Jehan could tell more about the nuances of a person from their smile than anyone else could from an encyclopaedia about them. He smiled faintly at him, and Jehan pulled two ribbons (green, today) from his hair and gave one to each of them.

 “Okay, give me your hands,” he said, and his ears were red with possible slight embarrassment but Grantaire did so, and Jehan tied a ribbon around each of their wrists, and smiled at them, before kissing them both and slipping out the room.

  Éponine stood, and held out her hand to Grantaire. He reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled up, and she laced their fingers together, and she switched on the light. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan writes an incriminating poem on the wall; Gavroche shows up to share a tale or two; Courfeyrac is perfect and irritating (what's new); Grantaire pretends to drink Ribena; there is a kiss, but nobody is quite sure why or how.

Grantaire avoided seeing Enjolras for a few days – he couldn’t escape the fact, of course, that he was always there – he so rarely left the group that he was a constant presence. And he couldn’t escape the onslaught of images in his head every time he was drunk or horny or lonely or happy, but that couldn’t be helped at all; luckily nobody seemed to have noticed that when Enjolras was up on his soapbox about abortion rights, Grantaire’s mind was a whirring ticker-tape of well-lit porn.

  Well, Courf had noticed, but considering that Courfeyrac was pretty much the expert on porn (he claimed that he’d once had to do some research into it for his degree – something about international law – and the website hadn’t let him cancel his subscription, which only Marius believed), he’d probably know the slight slackness to the jaw, a certain way of sitting, that this sort of thing (inappropriate, as he reminded himself all the time, praying there were no secret mind-readers amongst les Amis) would imprint on someone’s body.

  That, and the fact that obviously Jehan (hands curving inside Courfeyrac’s shirt, and they still thought they were being subtle?) had written all over the wall about magnets and opposites in his neat script, which Cosette (because although she looked like an angel, she had a rebellious streak which Éponine sadly encouraged, and the group had taken to her as quickly as they’d realised Marius was a bit odd) had drawn dicks under. For the sake of the peace, Combeferre had tacked a map of the world on top of the poetry (and seriously, Jehan would be paying the landlord to remove the writing).

  The map, however, encouraged Enjolras – it was a US map for some reason, and it cut Asia in half to make the USA the centre of attention – and so many rants had followed about consumerism and functionality that they had all decided it would be easier to remove the map again. Feuilly had stolen it and scribbled out most of the world, apart from Poland, and had put it on _his_ wall.

  So, every time Grantaire walked past that wall, he’d think about the whole magnets analogy, and he’d think about Enjolras, and he’d remember the way his face closed off the last time they spoke. Éponine kept shooting him sympathetic glances, along with messages telling him to “man the fuck up, you loser, seriously you are not Juliet so stop fucking _pining_ x”, but he sent the same back to her whenever he saw her gaze lingering on Marius for a second too long.

  Gavroche had started showing up at the Musain at weekends, skateboard and stolen sweets in tow, which Éponine encouraged simply because it was an excuse to get out of lessons for a few hours. They’d learned a lot more about the history of the two, and Cosette, and her terrifying father – and the soap-opera worth of secrets that had come spilling out had been a welcome distraction.

 “I’m Gavroche, I’m known for being a fucking twat (not my words), and I’m currently fourteen. I live in a children’s home because I ran away from my parents – “ and his patter, the patter of a practiced street story-teller, was interrupted by Courf.

 “Why?” and Éponine shot him a warning look, because for her the memories were fresh enough to leave shadows under her eyes. Undeterred, Gavroche shrugged, bony shoulders pushing his collarbones upwards to jut through his thin shirt (and didn’t the kid have anything else to wear? it was March), before pulling up the tattered hem and showing them the blue-black marks – like that of a boot – that sprawled across his stomach. Combeferre winced visibly, but Éponine merely raised an eyebrow.

 “When did they start hitting you? They didn’t hit me – “ and then Grantaire stopped, and looked at her. “When I said I ran away, I mean they threw me out. I got caught by Javert – nearly – stealing from the off-licence and they decided I was too much of a liberty. They talked about you, you know. Said you were a better cat burglar than I could ever be, even though I’m “scrawny”,” and he paused, the bravado in his voice fading. “So, that’s how I ended up in that home of Mabeuf’s. Nice bloke, but deluded when it comes to higher powers. And it’s okay there. Nobody hits me, nobody drinks too much – “ and Éponine and Grantaire exchanged glances – “but I miss having my own space.” He looked up at  Éponine, who was absent-mindedly mussing his dirty blonde hair.

 “When I graduate – “ and he sighed with his entire body, flopping into the sofa. He seemed to recover from the disappointment fairly quickly, though, because he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette and a bag of sweets. “Lollipop?” he offered, shaking the bag in front of his audience. Courfeyrac took one.

 “I like him, can we keep him?” he said to Jehan, who raised an eyebrow and stole his lollipop.

 In the corner, Cosette was crying silently – not the type of crying for attention, but tears were coursing down her cheeks. Marius, sitting on the floor with his head resting on her knees (because it was obvious who wore the trousers in _that_ relationship), reached up to entwine his fingers with hers; there was a pause, as if everyone were holding their breath, and then she spoke.

 “I lived with Éponine when I was younger. My  mum couldn’t look after me, she had to work, and she’d send money each month to pay for my upkeep. Strictly on the down low, of course – and they used me as bait,” and she looked at Éponine as if unwilling to go on. Éponine nodded at her, and half-smiled. “They’d lie about me being ill, and having to pay for clothes and special food, and so she’d send more and more. It was fine until she lost her job –“ and Feuilly, always attuned to these sorts of things (past tense where parents were concerned), moved to pat her on the back gingerly. She smiled at him, tears shining on her cheeks.

 “She lost her job because of me. I’m not sure of the details, but anyway, she ended up on the streets. She sold everything she had, and then she sold herself. She caught something in that brothel, and she died.” Marius had moved onto the sofa, and was holding her. Grantaire thought about all the causes Cosette liked to help – women’s shelters, women’s rights – and as she pushed her hand up to move her hair out of the way, he saw charity wristbands criss-crossing her wrists. Enjolras had many the same, but he forced the thought away.

 “So then – “ and her voice was trembling, but she went on – “the owner of the factory she worked in, he’d promised her to look after me. So he did. He’s my father now – I never knew my real father, and I can only remember being told he was fond of a joke.” There was a silence in the room. Bahorel (who had assumed from her clothing and way of speaking that Cosette was the gilded cage-bird she looked like), moved to hold one of her hands in his huge one.

 Jehan looked at up at her from where he was squashed next to Courfeyrac. “But Ép – “ and at that, Éponine looked up at Cosette, too. “I stayed, and I was forced to steal and beg and hurt people. I got out as soon as I could, though. It’s funny, isn’t it? How our roles and fortunes have been reversed – “ and Marius frowned at her (she sank back into the chair).  Grantaire shrugged, and started to drink from the Ribena bottle that was fooling precisely nobody. Joly and Feuilly started to play chess on Joly’s phone.

  Cosette had stopped crying, and sniffed once. “Anything good on tonight? I don’t want to go to the Musain, really,” and Bossuet seized the remote. Once they’d found and replaced the batteries he’d scattered across the floor, they put Lord of the Rings on. Courfeyrac started wailing about his “babies”, and Jehan pinched him in the side – which, with a yowl of pain, made Courf stop pretending to cry. “The Might Courfeyrac does not fear death,” and everyone rolled their eyes as one, and Jehan clapped a hand over his mouth before he could talk about cages because they were watching the _first film you idiot_.

 Enjolras muttered mutinously about kings under his breath, and wouldn’t shut up until Cosette chucked a cushion at his head, at which point he admitted that _okay_ Galadriel is a bamf. Joly curled up with Musichetta and Bossuet, and could be heard saying the lines along with the characters; Musichetta rolled her eyes and kissed him to shut him up. Bahorel informed everyone that he would get dibs on Aragorn, were he a real character, and Feuilly frowned at him until he clarified “to fight with”. They settled.

   Combeferre had relaxed his rule on no smoking in anyone’s rooms, which had caused the rest of the group to denounce him as a dictator – “look, it’s adorable that you care about our lungs but we don’t so shut up, four-eyed fascist” – because “if the fourteen-year-old can smoke” (which he was doing, despite Éponine’s best efforts to take his cigarette away), the rules went out the window, apparently. He seemed a little stressed, tonight; every time Éponine looked down at her phone and smirked in a way that suggested the conversation was NC-17, he sighed.

  She stood up, and grabbed her leather jacket and bag, before hiking her skirt up until the tops of her stockings were just visible (she’d hit Bahorel for insinuating that she was asking for trouble, and he’d apologised and bought her some fishnets, because she carried a knife most of the time and knew how to use it) – at which Combeferre blanched – and she left, swinging her bag behind her. The door slammed.

 Grantaire’s phone beeped, and a barrage of cushions and Doritos (where had they come from?) hit him until he silenced it. He waited until the attention of everyone had gone back to the screen (where Gandalf was having a “fab-off” with Saruman, as Feuilly insisted on calling it), and opened it.

  **Enjolras:**  we still need to talk, you know. About the other week.

  He risked a glance over at Enjolras, who seemed to be just as engrossed in the film, but then his phone vibrated this time in his hand.

  **Enjolras:** You’re not a cause, you know. You’re a friend, and I care very much about all my friends.

  Grantaire shot him another look, and this time Enjolras caught him looking. Slipping his (ancient non-brand) phone into his pocket, he motioned to the door with his head, and then stood up smoothly and left the room.

 Musichetta raised one perfect eyebrow at Grantaire, because she seemed to know everything, shaman that she was, and then winked at him. She elbowed Jehan, who poked Courfeyrac, who gave him a huge thumbs-up. He mouthed something, which looked horrifyingly like “go get him, tiger”, and Grantaire rolled his eyes and stalked out.

  The room outside was dark, and colder than the inside. He couldn’t even remember whose house they were in, so he followed with trepidation – until he spotted the enormous jar of biscuits and realised it must be Courf’s.

 Enjolras was standing in the darkened kitchen, silhouetted against the night sky (because apparently Jehan had removed all the curtains to make the kitchen brighter – not that he even lived here yet), and he pushed a glass of water towards Grantaire. “I know you’ve been drinking – I can smell the whiskey on you,” and Grantaire simply nodded silently and gulped the water in one, slamming the glass down as if it were a shot, because bad habits die hardest of all.

 “I don’t look at you and see just scars and cynicism and sarcasm, the man who I have to talk down off bridges and carry home when you’ve passed out under the bridge again. I see the man you must have been before this happened, whatever happened. You deserve to get better, and you deserve to do it for yourself, and I’m not going to take that away from you. You’ve lost enough. I want to help you, though.” He sounded confident, as if this had been playing in his mind for days, and knowing him and his bizarre attitude to preparation (seriously, he’d once commended Courfeyrac for making kissing coupons which made no sense to anyone else), he would have done.

 Grantaire snorted. “You’re going places. There’s probably a seat in Parliament with your name on, or the byline of Private Eye. You’re the change, or whatever it was Ghandi said (and what the fuck does he know because he’s fucking _dead_ ), you want to see in the world. But I’m headed for the gutter, or a ditch, and there’s nothing you can do about that.” He looked at Enjolras, who was very close now; he could see his own face reflected in his pupils.

 “I can’t get better for anyone, you know that,” and he was half-shouting now, “not even you and you –“ hands gesticulating erratically, because he’d had too much whiskey and he was too close to Enjolras – and then he felt long fingers wrap around his wrists (could Enjolras feel his pulse jump?), tracing the scars with a sort of curiosity, not judgement.

  He felt that if he breathed too deeply, he could breathe the same breath as Enjolras, they were that close, and then he has to stop thinking because Enjolras’s lips are soft and not gentle, slightly chapped and warm; and then he is ghosting his name like a prayer as he kisses; and dear god, he’d have to ask Joly if Enjolras is ill because this seems rather out of character. Grantaire’s hands bunched in Enjolras’s hair (getting slightly too long, and curling), and Enjolras’s hands curve across the base of his spine, pulling at his jacket. He takes a breath, and it feels like he’s on the edge of a precipice.

  Grantaire is the first to pull away, because he feels like he could stay like this forever, his mind buzzing with questions and the smell of Fairtrade and organic shampoo.

 “What – “ he tried, but Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “No, seriously, is this a joke? Did Courf pay you or something? Look at you, seriously, and then look at me and I – “ and he stopped again. Enjolras wasn’t laughing.

 “I – I never threw you out, did I? Combeferre told me to, did you know that?” and Grantaire shoots a furious glance at the door because no, he fucking didn’t. “It was that time you turned up absolutely hammered to that rally in Trafalgar Square, and you made it onto the news because you passed out and were almost trampled by the police, and we had to leave early to look after you.” He quirked the other eyebrow. “But I couldn’t throw you out – and for some reason, Gavroche and Courfeyrac are the only ones who know, which means actually everyone knows – because I saw something in you that was more than just the cynic.”

 He stopped, and Grantaire rubbed his eyes. “I am a cause, aren’t I? I mean, I’d take that, because god knows I need someone to fight my corner – “ but Enjolras’s lips were on his again and he wondered again what the fuck was going on, but sighed into it and traced a line with his tongue along Enjolras’s bottom lip.

  There was a desperate rapping at the door, and Grantaire twisted away from Enjolras, pulling their fingers apart. They walked out of the kitchen, deliberately untouching, but their hands brushed once and Grantaire felt it like a bolt of electricity humming through his veins. Courfeyrac saw them first, and his face split into a huge grin; before he could say anything, Combeferre had pulled open the door and Éponine stood on the doorstep, sobbing. There were grazes on her knuckles and a red welt on her cheek, and her hair was more messed up than normal.

 “What the hell happened?”Combeferre asked, before drawing her into his arms to hold her; she sobbed out against his shoulder that “We had a fight- Montparnasse and me – he’s got a black eye and a cut from my ring,” and she waved her hand (still bleeding slightly from the knuckles) in the arm. Combeferre grabbed it and held it tight.

 The others stood back; Cosette was half-hugging Gavroche, who looked as if he wanted to go and beat Montparnasse up. The film was still playing in the next room, but nobody was watching it any more; Musichetta came over and took Éponine’s other hand, and pulled her into the kitchen. “I’ll clean these cuts up,” she said, and Joly followed her. Bossuet stood where he was, looking bereft.

Courfeyrac shot a look at Grantaire, who was trying to force his shellshocked brain to make sense of the events of the evening. It was a lot to take in, and then his phone vibrated again.

  **Courfeyrac:** you have stubble burn on your face. did you make out in my kitchen? you wanton mistress of the night

  He frowned at Courf, who snorted in response, and tapped out another message.

  **Courfeyrac:** by the way that is unsanitary and we are never going to tell joly. also Enjolras told us he thought you were “worth saving” or whatever words he used, after that time you hit him for taking away your vodka. it was cheap vodka too, you lush. love you honeybunch xxx

  Grantaire switched his phone off. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Grantaire and Éponine have a chat. Courf wins some money (who is surprised?), discussion of Libération, the word "scrotum" is used (everyone blames Joly for putting on Embarrassing Bodies), and there is a Berlusconi joke.
> 
> (trigger warning for mentions of self-harm)

“It’s all about release, you know,” Grantaire had told him, as he’d watched him bandage the cuts that laced up Éponine’s arms. Combeferre hadn’t replied, but Éponine had rolled her eyes at him and tugged her sleeve up to cover the dressings. “You know – when you relapse, with anything, it is so much worse than before; there’s no reason to stop, because you’ve already pissed everyone else off, and you might as well do it as badly as you ever have done, until you can’t see the anger in your own eyes in the mirror, until you can’t articulate to people _why_ – “ and at that, Combeferre frowned at him.

 “R, you need to be quiet for a bit,” and the careful control he was using to speak was a warning; Grantaire shut up. He kissed Éponine on the cheek (who recoiled from him, later claiming he smelled like an “ashtray drowned in Tullamore Dew”), and sloped to the corner, where he slumped with his head on the table. He avoided looking at Enjolras, who had been silent as soon as the blood had soaked through the cuffs of Éponine’s jacket, but was sitting watching.

 “What did you use, Ép?” Combeferre asked, ignoring the way Enjolras (who was now back to trying not to pout in irritation, and occasionally stroking the red-raw stubble burn with an attempt at carelessness that fooled nobody) sat up slightly, and then walked out (and perhaps it was a sign of how the whole fairly obvious Grantaire situation had affected him, that he did not stride).

 She flinched slightly at the noise of the door shutting behind Enjolras, and Combeferre raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, and then turned to put away the first aid kit. They had an entire cupboard full in each house, simply because Joly would refuse to go anywhere without a triangular bandage to hand, and she watched him, calmly. She’d stopped crying now; her make-up had run in tracts down her face, and the bruises on her knuckles were blooming.

 “I used a knife,” and he swore under his breath. “It’s not that bad, though. I could tell it was going to happen, and when I’ve been drinking anyway it makes me do it more badly.” She shrugged, and looked across to Grantaire. “R,” she called, throwing a bottle lid at him; it hit his shoulder, but he didn’t move. “Oi, come on, back me up,” and at that he groaned into the table and sat up.

 “Look, Combeferre is a doctor and doctors try to lock you up if you talk about this – “ and Combeferre frowned at him.

 “I’m training to be a doctor, and I’m still not sure I want to be one. We can’t all escape parental pressure at the bottom of a bottle, you know – “ and Éponine hit him. He stopped, glasses knocked wonky by her backhand (and Grantaire, who had made too many comments about Montparnasse not to know how much it must have hurt, winced), and sighed.

 “Look, I know you’re some wise philosophical person owl thing or whatever – “ and Combeferre blinked (owlishly), as Éponine snorted behind him – “but there are some things you don’t intrude on, okay? I doubt Orwell has a quote to deal with this, the man didn’t drink lager, and quite frankly you have to let the person who is suffering volunteer the information. That’s my experience, anyway.”

 He reached out to ruffle Éponine’s hair, and she let him, which meant she must still be shaken; the last time Grantaire had tried that, she’d thrown a plate at him. Combeferre looked out towards the window, where the skyline of the city glinted in the distance, and pressed his lips together in frustration. 

 “If you need to talk – “ he started, and Grantaire and Éponine both snorted in unison. Combeferre ignored them and (okay someone had been watching too much Star Wars) put his hands on their shoulders. “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” and before he could go on, Courfeyrac shouted from the other room “Han shot first!” and Éponine laughed.

 Grantaire, looking at Combeferre, could see the way in which his face changed when she laughed; it was related (he supposed) to the way he’d worry his lower lip with his teeth when she cried until she was sobbing and gasping and choking for breath. He was adrift in the slight creases in her cheeks, and Grantaire wondered if he did something similar when he looked at Enjolras. (Not that Enjolras smiled much, unless he’d spotted a particularly brilliant article in the Occupied Times).

  Éponine wiped her eyes (trailing black kohl over the backs of her hands), and shrugged. “I’m done with Montparnasse. He – well, we had a row over something, and I realised that I’m sick of being treated like shit just because he thinks he can get away with it.” She looked up at them through her eyelashes, and sniffed. “So. I’ve deleted his number, because otherwise I’ll text him when I’m drunk and horny – “ and Combeferre shifted uncomfortably – “because now that Courf’s with Jehan, or is pretending not to be with Jehan but they were making out shirtless in the café the other day, he’s got someone for him when he’s bored or whatever.” Grantaire snorted.

 “You and Courf? Jesus, Ép, when was this?” and her face twisted into a grin.

 “Oh, a while ago. We were drunk. We were horny, and we were both single, and it was fun.” He snorted again, and she raised her eyebrows. “Oh, R, like you haven’t thought about it, ever? I mean, we all know Enjolras is the only one for you – “ and he rolled his eyes,  but she carried on – “Hey, what was all that about?” and she gestured to the door.

  “Erm, I don’t kn- “ and she exhaled as if trying to calm down.

 “R, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter; I’ve been manipulating people since I could flutter my eyelashes, not that it was my choice – but. I can tell by the beard burn on his face and the stupid grin on yours –“ she paused, and then looked down at her hands, still bleeding slightly from the grazes Montparnasse’s facial piercings had left.

 “Just – don’t be all pathetic and soppy, okay? Marius and Cosette are bad enough, and we’re not even with them half the time, and everyone else seems to be coupled off – Joly and Bahorel and Musichetta are tripled, I guess – so. Don’t be like everyone else.” She looked over at Combeferre, who cleared his throat. “I – “

 Grantaire interrupted him, hands half-clenched and ready to grab onto the lapels of his stupid shirt, if necessary. “Oh, I hear you tried to get rid of me? Not in a Thenardier way,” he clarified, seeing the look of half-horror on Éponine’s face. “As in, you tried to get me to, what, leave the group?” The fear on Éponine’s face shifted into anger, and she glared at Combeferre, who ignored her to look at Grantaire.

 Combeferre’s face fell slightly. “It was a while ago, that time Enjolras carried you back from the tube station, and then he missed an exam the morning after because you stopped breathing. I – I thought you were a dead weight,” and he held up a hand to stave off the panic that must have been visible in Grantaire’s face – “No, I mean. You were trouble, for him, I suppose. He’s – he gets focused on things, and I thought that if you were one of them, he’d end up worrying so much his perfectly styled hair went white.” He half-smiled. “But you’ve been – not good, exactly, but interesting. You invigorate him, you make him question things which he never bothered to question before.” His half-smile formed fully into a beam, and Éponine (chewing on her bruised lip) nodded.

 “Thanks,” muttered Grantaire, unwilling to show his gratitude in his face. “I suppose I should talk to him?” he half-whispered, before squaring his shoulders. “I’m going to talk to him. Okay. I can do this, I passed my grade three piano with a hangover.” He shot a grin over his shoulder at the pair of them, lit up by the thin shaft of light that pierced the blind, and just as he left, he saw Combeferre enfold Éponine in his arms once more.

 He shut the door softly behind him, and the sounds from the other room (it sounded like Embarrassing Bodies, so Joly must have the remote) grew louder. He paused with his hand on the doorknob to the room; “and this is how we check your testicles” came through the door, and he recoiled slightly, mind full of unwelcome images of how exactly Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta would do that.

 “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” He started, and turned to face the foot of the stairs, where Enjolras leaned against the wall. “I stayed long enough to hear the word “scrotum” and then decided enough was enough. It’s like the last days of Rome in there; I think Courf may actually be naked right now. I tried to object on a moral viewpoint but they called me a fascist,” and he sounded half-joking, half-upset.

 “Ah, the political corruption of the horny explains Italian politics fairly well, I think,” and at that Enjolras laughed. 

 “You hide it well, you know. You hide your intelligence. You’re too clever for your own good, Grantaire. You dedicate yourself to being a screw-up, rather than fighting for change –“ and Grantaire raised an eyebrow at that.

 “Oh, and we’re back to my dodgy moral compass, are we? I Seriously, what have we achieved? The other day, Elizabeth II approved a Bill, I think, to support a law promoting equality for gay people in the Commonwealth, but then she signed that Bill allowing councils to ignore our very existence ten years ago. I mean, does the double standard not shock you? And don’t look surprised that I keep up with stuff! We can’t change anything. It’s stupid to try. I mean, sure, I understand how unfair it is, how terrible and degrading it is to bomb civilians in Pakistan or for websites like Uni Lad to exist, or how fucked up sentencing for rapists is – but we have signs. We go to protests. We protest. Nothing happens,” and Enjolras glared at him, but didn’t interrupt.

 “And I suppose boycotting places that use child labour, like Topshop, or I don’t know, boycotting Starbucks, or reading the Guardian or _Libération_ – might get you some Brownie points if you believe in some higher power. But there’s nothing there. There’s no glorious future awaiting us if we shout loudly enough.” He shrugged, and wished he had a bottle in his hands right now.

 “Maybe if you came to one of the protests, rather than just you know, passing out before it starts and making Bahorel and I late because we’re having to carry you back here – you’d realise that anger does things. They say money makes the world go round – it’s time to reclaim it for ourselves. Your little speech there might have convinced me, if I didn’t know you’re probably only doing it to piss me off – “ and Grantaire started to protest, but Enjolras carried on talking over him, and he was close now.

 “I know you believe in something. You told me, do you remember? I mean, you don’t care, or don’t want to care, about anything. But – passion is an energy, too, and I can’t believe I’m doing this because I don’t even _like_ you that much –“ and then they were kissing, lips as harsh and fierce as their words had been, and Enjolras was pressed back against the wall with his leg between Grantaire’s and my _god_ , the friction was going to kill him and why didn’t he wear more sensible trousers? And Enjolras’s hands were greedily spanning his back underneath his shirt (today, it said “Save Water, Drink Beer”) and this was the second time he’d felt those long fingers on his skin and good god it would never be enough, and he must shave with a cut-throat razor or something because his skin was as smooth as Éponine’s that one time they’d been drunk enough to try, and it was only when Enjolras ghosted a laugh against his neck that he realised he’d been saying all this aloud.

 Enjolras shifted slightly, away from the (terrible) painting done by Gavroche years ago – stick people standing outside a house, and the woman is huge and monstrous, and the man has burning eyes, and the children cower – that must have been digging into his back, and Grantaire had to remind himself to breathe because this is happening, Enjolras pressed up against the wall of Courf’s hallway and biting his lips, and Grantaire murmurs under his breath but his lips are pressed against the curve of Enjolras’s neck, and my _god_ when did they start teaching virgins how to kiss –

 And Grantaire slipped his fingers through the belt-loops on the back of Enjolras’s (sinfully tight) jeans, and he was trying to remember exactly how much of his whiskey bottle is left (for posterity, and because maybe he did listen to Jehan talking about consent), and at the same time trying to concentrate on _not_ getting too hard (because okay, walking with a boner was fucking tricky and there were _stairs_ for some fucking stupid reason). “Someone might – “ Enjolras started, but Grantaire laughed into his mouth. “Oh, like a little thing such as decorum,” his voice was rough and his pupils, reflected in Enjolras’s eyes, were blown with lust – but before he could finish his sentence Enjolras half- _moaned_ and he had to try control his own whimper.

He could see, from the dim light from under the living room door, that he’d left purple shadows across Enjolras’s neck, and he guessed his own lips must be as swollen and bright as Enjolras’s, and he slid his hand below the waistband of Enjolras’s boxers (almost definitely red, but he and Bahorel had a pool going), and “ _fuck_ ” he moaned against his skin, voice heavy with want, and too many cigarettes, and he wondered if he tasted of smoke – and Enjolras was kissing him harder than he’d even been kissed, and had shoved his hands half-roughly inside Grantaire’s jeans with an almost-drunken sloppiness although he knew he was sober -

  The door from the living room flew open to a chorus of “Holy shit, you randy fuckers,” camera flashes and giggles from Courfeyrac; Jehan pretended to faint into his arms (although judging from the noises they’d been hearing, he was no swooning maiden), and Feuilly clapped slowly and sarcastically (and probably a little jealously, given the number of texts he’d been sending whining about his love life, and how he was stood away from Bahorel); the kitchen door banged open as well, and Éponine (lipstick smudged in a different way to how it had been) and Combeferre (now wearing smudged lipstick) rushed out, to snort in unison. Marius looked at her, and she looked away.

 Enjolras rolled his eyes at the group, and extracted himself gingerly.

 “About fucking time,” Bossuet crowed, before pulling out his phone and consulting a list. “Right, who had this week? Oh, check your flies, boys - it wasn’t me, we all know that – “ and Courfeyrac (and _oh_ , it would be him) raised a hand in victory.

 “You were betting on us?” Grantaire asked, and moved to stand next to Éponine. She dropped her eyelid in a slow wink, and he raised an eyebrow back at her.

 “Give us some credit for having eyes. I mean, you’re nice to him. That’s something we don’t see – remember when that girl tried to chat you up, and as soon as you’d ascertained she wasn’t a socialist, you just walked off? And that guy who asked for your number, pretending to be from some Republic pressure group, and he used one winky face and you cut him off? I mean – “ and Musichetta’s voice was cut off by Enjolras.

 “Right, okay, I kissed Grantaire – “ and Joly muttered “Oh, we saw your hands down each other’s trousers, can we not pretend?” but Enjolras went on – “but we still have a protest to plan. Next week. I mean, if you checked the Facebook group, you’d know,” and his glare included the whole group, although its effect was stilted somewhat by the hickeys that crossed his throat, and his heavy breathing; they quietened, and melted away into the kitchen, whispering.

 Grantaire turned to go, but Enjolas, looking out the window, turned his head to blink at him. “Grantaire…. R. I’ll – I’ll add you to the Facebook group. And – the thing with Éponine might have. Well. I’ll add you to the Facebook group.” and he walked out the room, leaving Grantaire (still half-hard for Christ’s sake) alone with his confusion.

 “Fuck,” he said quietly to the curtains. “Fuck.”

 

     

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever! And I was asked for some Combeferre/Éponine, but it wasn't really fitting so I'm going to do another one about them soon. Might also do the conversation about Grantaire between Enjolras and Combeferre.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> les amis react to MCR breakup  
> Enjolras is passionate about politics  
> Grantaire quotes Donna Tartt a lot  
> ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am but a maiden and know nothing of the ways of men
> 
> Grantaire quotes from "The Secret History" by Donna Tartt. Fucking ace, man.

Grantaire let out a wail from where he was slouched on the sofa, and everyone looked up. They were crowded round a rickety table in the Musain, supposedly to work – textbooks about social theory fought for space with pages scrawled with calculations; diagrams of the liver vied with French poetry and law notes, and the owners of the books were as cramped as their possessions (Bossuet had given up on his chair to lie across the laps of Joly and Musichetta).

 “Grantaire, are you – “ but next to him on the sofa, Éponine cut Marius off with another shriek. “We’re not okay,” she moaned, and rubbed Grantaire’s back soothingly. He was now rocking back and forth in shock, mumbling under his breath.

 Combeferre and Joly exchanged worried glances, and Enjolras’s gaze flickered from where he’d been writing Rousseau quotes on a sign (there would be a protest next week against the Daily Mail). He and Grantaire hadn’t spoken since the Incident, as it was being referred to in the nosy messages sent between the others, but Jehan had noticed that they’d been avoiding each other as if they were circling a drain – not touching, but coordinated. When one moved, the other flexed. But that could all be fantastical.

Grantaire wailed again, louder this time; a surly man sat at the bar shot him a dirty look. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, and launched himself across the table, knocking Bossuet’s drink over as he went.

 “What’s up, kids? Some exciting new development in the world of Lana del Rey? Maybe, I don’t know, a new way of saying YOLO?” Feuilly shot him a warning glance – the hipflask was still a contentious issue – but before Courfeyrac could go on, Grantaire sniffed, clenching Éponine’s fist.

 “My Chemical Romance have split up,” he said dramatically, and Cosette gasped, and squeezed Marius’s hand so hard that he squeaked. “I – I need – “ and his half-formed sentences matched his half-formed movements as he made his way to the table to grab the bottle (some artisan beer,  filched from Marius, because Marius was even more of a filthy hipster than he was), and they could see his hands were shaking as he opened it (with his teeth – he was gratified to see Enjolras start a little in his seat).

 “They – twelve years, and then one fucking blog post?” Éponine continued, shoving her top aside to reveal her (almost certainly custom-made for someone else and then stolen) themed bra. “I can’t – I can’t _cope_ with this.” She half-stood, but then sagged back down again. Combeferre slammed shut his textbook (organic chemistry, but he’d been quoting Orwell in the margins) and stood up, righting Bossuet’s (now empty) cup and folding his long legs up to squash beside Éponine.

“It’s – it’s okay,” he said, looking round the room and begging for help with his eyes. Éponine howled again, curling up into his side to sob into his jumper. “Éponine, it’s just – “ and at that, her head shot up, furious eyes ringed with tear-wrecked make-up.

 “They’re not just a band, and if you think – they saved my life. The Black Parade? Literally the song I put on when, you know, I’d had to run from the police through a glass door and I was bleeding, or when I hit rock-bottom at 9am on a Thursday because I’d been up all night working to try to help my family –“ and she choked off a sob. He let her slump against his chest, her words muffled by green wool.

 “I can’t believe this is happening,” Grantaire intoned, in a voice devoid of anything. Musichetta kicked Enjolras, who shot her a furious glare, immediately followed by a look of helplessness. Jehan was furiously texting under the table, and Enjolras’s phone beeped once (possibly the only person ever to keep the default setting on the phone). He scowled at the room, but looked over at Grantaire and his face fell.

  **Jehan:** If you don’t calm him down I will fuck you up in the most painful way you can imagine, until you beg for death and mercy. But there will be none.  :-) xox

  Enjolras swallowed – Jehan wore his flowers and kitten-motifs like a shield, and wasn’t at all scared of him – and put the cap on his pen, sighing. “Grantaire – “ he started, before moving over to loom over him. “It’s going to be okay – “

 Grantaire _howled_ and half-sobbed out that “they’d been talking about a new album and new songs, this is worse than when Fall Out Boy broke up – “ and Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and muttered that “Well, _of course_ you were an emo kid,”. Enjolras frowned at him, before mouthing “help me” to Cosette. She patted Marius on the cheek, and came to hold Grantaire’s hand.

 “I know it hurts right now and that’s fine, and valid. It will get easier now, though. You have to let it hurt,” and he looked up at her with eyes that were red with tears (and cigarette smoke, not that that was anything new), and grasped her hand gratefully, like a drowning swimmer seizes the lifebelt.

 He tilted his head back to take a long swallow from the bottle, and sneaked a glance to the side. Enjolras was watching the way his throat moved (unashamedly, and judging from the mutters he could hear from the table, obviously).

 “Who - “ Joly started, trying to extract himself from Bossuet’s legs. “Who are My Chemical Romance?” There was a shocked silence. Cosette started laughing a little too loudly, and Éponine wailed again. Combeferre dropped a light kiss into her hair, and she looked at him and said “How will I tell Gavroche?” Grantaire shook his head at Joly.

 “They were – and the past tense pains me – a band. The greatest, most important band in my life,” and everyone looked round at Marius in shock. “You listen to _Arcade Fire_ , what do you – “ started Cosette, and the room’s eyes swivelled to her.

 “If Cosette didn’t know you like them – and she knows your _blood type_ because of that time you faceplanted into that glass table – you must have buried your love for them deep,” started Musichetta, slowly. She shrugged. “Personally, they never did much for me, but I know how hard this must be for you all. It’s nice to see that Grantaire listens to something else other than “Please, please let me get what I Want”, or Lana Del Rey, because I fucking know she was born to die.” Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically, and Musichetta ruffled Grantaire’s hair “affectionately”. Standing up, she signalled to the barman for more drinks. He threw a judging glance at the clock – half-past ten in the morning – but then she gestured something else, and he paled.

 “We’re drinking on Grantaire time, I see,” started Enjolras, unable to keep the acidic bite out of his voice. “For the record, I’ve never listened to them either – “ and the look of disgust that Cosette and Marius shot him, in unison, was almost enough to make him frown. “I just prefer music with more of a _political_ message. Speaking of politics – “ and the group sighed as one – “I posted a link about that Daily Mail article on the Facebook group. Actually, I dislike Facebook, but –“ and Jehan threw a brownie at his head in an attempt to shut him up. He caught it, and passed it to Grantaire, before carrying on unruffled. “You know, the one that may have encouraged a woman to kill herself – “ and there was a stunned silence. Jehan reached across the table to hold Courfeyrac’s hand, and then took Feuilly’s as well (eating a macaroon so ferociously that there were crumbs in his red-brown stubble). The silence stretched.

 “We’re in,” Combeferre said – more of a formality, because they all knew they’d follow Enjolras to the death, if it came to that – and Grantaire, now holding Enjolras’s hand (Cosette and Marius had both beamed), half-hidden beside the sofa – Bahorel took a picture to add to the growing “Fucking Finally, or Finally Fucking” album he’d made on Facebook, which was actually inaccurate – nodded, and shrugged.

 “I’ll come, if you’ll have me,” he said, looking at Enjolras with an almost scared expression on his face. “I mean, why not? It might be good,” and he shrugged again, before reaching out to drink from the bottle that rested against his hip. Enjolras’s face froze into a mask.

 “You can come, but you can’t drink,” he announced, and the whole group looked at him. Grantaire’s drinking wasn’t a thing they talked about, much – he and Éponine had stopped with the drugs, but he’d hit the bottle harder than ever since then – and his face hardened.

 “Why do you always ruin things? Look, I drink. I like drinking, and I’m good at it, and there’s nothing wrong –“ he held a hand up at Joly’s opened mouth, because there were only so many times you could hear the words _acute liver damage_ in a day – “there’s nothing wrong with me. When I don’t drink, I’m more of a mess than when I do.” He raised an eyebrow at Enjolras, who pulled his hand free. Bahorel went to take a picture, but Feuilly knocked the phone to the floor.

 “You can’t come to a protest drunk. If the police – “ Combeferre started, trying to be reasonable, but Enjolras interrupted him. “He can’t come because I won’t let him _disgrace_ us like that-“ and the rest of the room had long stopped pretending to work and were listening, avidly.

 “Disgrace you? I disgrace you? Jesus Christ, why the hell am I bothering with all this shit, if you’re going to turn around two days after you had your _tongue down my throat_ and tell me that?” He laughed once, bitterly, and looked Enjolras in the eye, smirking as he gulped from the bottle.

 Éponine took it out of his hands. “R, don’t listen – “ and Enjolras was on his feet again.

 “I had to watch my mother drink herself stupid, but at least she managed to maintain a façade of decency. You’ll drink yourself to death, if you carry on like this. And don’t pretend I’m being cruel – you know it, we know it.” He was breathing heavily now, fists clenched at his sides, My Chemical Romance (temporarily) forgotten as Grantaire rolled his eyes.

 “Look, I get that, you know, it’s lowering yourself to even _look_ at me. I mean, I don’t like myself either. But you – “ and Combeferre stood up, Éponine leaning on him as if he were made of rock.

 “We’d better go, actually – theatre tickets – “ and Feuilly’s eyebrows shot almost to his hairline.

 “Oh, for god’s sake, am I the only one not in a couple? I mean, with our fearless leader and the wine-cask – “ Grantaire raised his bottle sardonically in response, and Enjolras pressed his lips together – “and the slut and the poet” – and they both called out “not dating, we’re more than that,” which suggested that Jehan had used filthy methods of persuasion to get Courfeyrac to agree – “and then Hecate over there,” he jabbed this thumb at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, back squashed on two chairs – “and now _you two”_ , and Combeferre’s mouth twitched before he said “We’re not – “ but Feuilly cut him off again. “I’m the only one on my lonesome and I work for fucking hours as a _cleaner_ at the museum because I can pretend to dust the cabinets whilst looking, and then I do all that restoring stuff – “

 Enjolras cut him off smoothly. “Fascinating as this is, I think I was actually talking to Grantaire – “ at which point Grantaire stood up, swinging his bottle from his hand. “I’ll, er, stop disgracing your presence now, great one,” he smirked, bowing low. He looked up once at Enjolras and then walked out of the room, humming under his breath. The room watched him go, before Bahorel punched Enjolras (lightly) on the shoulder.

 “Go and talk to him,” he said, looking everywhere but at Feuilly. “You fucked this up by kissing him, when you full well _know_ how he feels, and then treating him like shit in front of everyone. And I know I’m not well-known for my tact – “ and Joly muttered under his breath that “that’s an understatement if ever I heard one” – which Bahorel ignored. “but even I wouldn’t say to the guy who had his hands in the back pockets of your fucking jeans – “ and Enjolras looked at the floor, because he hadn’t known everyone had seen their hands – “that he’s a disgrace. Grow up.”

 Bahorel nodded once at the group, before grabbing Feuilly by the hand, telling him “we’re on a mission to find a cynical hipster,” and rushing out the door, pausing only to grab his hat – a bowler one, today, for no reason at all.

 Enjolras sighed, and looked at Combeferre, who was still standing in the corner with Éponine. “Can you pack up here?” he asked, and he didn’t ask for help often. Combeferre only nodded once, choosing not to question it, and started to marshal papers and books.

 Grantaire was sitting on the pavement outside the café, legs extended so that his battered Converses were in the road. He didn’t look up as Enjolras sat down beside him. “I saw Feuilly and Bahorel go past, but I didn’t really want to be seen by them. Bahorel was wearing a stupid hat – I have a reputation to maintain,” and his tone sounded carefully calculated to irritate Enjolras. Knowing Grantaire, it probably was.

 “So,” Enjolras started, and tapped his hands on his knees nervously. Grantaire frowned, and reached out to hold them still. “So,” he repeated, but tilted his head slightly so that Enjolras could better appreciate his eyebrow-raise.

 “We’re not going to be pretty, you and I,” Enjolras told him, before Grantaire snorted at that.

 “Oh, fearless Apollo, I may be just Icarus but you’re the sun – “ and Enjolras frowned at him.

 “Can we stop with the classical references, please? This is neither Ancient Greece nor the seventeenth century. I’m saying that we’ll fight. You’ll probably hit walls, and we’ll have those sorts of fights that lead to desperate fucking over the kitchen table – “ and Grantaire wondered if his brain were short-circuiting because he couldn’t be hearing this.

 “You don’t like me,” he said, marvelling at how sane his voice sounded. “We don’t like each other. We argue about everything  and we’ll keep doing it, and worse– politics, drinking, smoking, drugs, Montparnasse, even though I told you I haven’t seen him in months – “ and Enjolras scowled at the name.

 “What about working too hard? Or being cruel?” he said, almost hoping Grantaire would call his bluff and agree that yes, it was madness, in that mocking way he had that made Enjolras want to taste his words.

 “Cruelty’s fine as long as it’s directed well – maybe we should ask Jehan, did you know he’s a kinky fucker? And well, I work not at all, so we’d balance out well.” He almost laughed at himself, discussing _them_ with as much emotion as if he were discussing the weather. “I think – you’d curb my excesses. Not tame them, obviously – you can’t tame a wild thing, and I am wild – but maybe encourage me to eat some fruit now and then, or open a window.” He shrugged.

 “Or shave? Or shower?” at which Grantaire growled a soft “fuck you” under his breath, before snickering a laugh at Enjolras’s face.

 Enjolras frowned. “Oh, for God’s sake – be serious for once in your lifetime,” and Grantaire seemed to sober. He uncapped the bottle that rested in between them on the road, but Enjolras covered the top of the bottle with his hand. Grantaire looked at him, a sort of fierce determination in his eyes – a look he’d only seen in himself when practising speeches in the mirror (which, despite what Joly said, was healthy and normal), or Feuilly when someone mentioned Poland or the Gaza Strip, or Combeferre when the tuition fees debacle had been declared.

 “Did you know,” started Grantaire, who was looking at him now from under his curly hair, “that I live really close to the café? You know, for crawling home drunk, crawling back to get drunk. I mean, I know we all live close to the café. But my room is the closest. They won’t miss us, you know,” he pronounced, standing up now and gesturing to his building, and turned to walk along the edge of the curb. Enjolras could see that the bottle had barely been drunk from at all, and when he kissed Grantaire – standing as he was in a shaft on sunlight – he could taste only smoke and mint chocolate.

 “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it,” Grantaire whispered against his lips, and tugged his fingers gently through Enjolras’s hair, winding the strands around his fingers. Enjolras bit his lower lip insistently, and he surrendered, pressing his lips back against Enjolras’s neck to breathe “And - what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely?”.

  They were at his door now, both fumbling in his pocket for the key, and then the door was unlocked and Enjolras had tipped his head back as his hands moved under Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire looked at him, long lashes curled against his cheeks and lips red from biting, and had to catch his breath to say “To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to - to shatter the accident of our mortal selves – your fucking _tongue_ what do they teach you at prep school – then there’s something about deer that I really can’t remember with you there – “

 Enjolras smirks against his neck. “Would you shut up, and then we can get on with it?” he asked, before looking at Grantaire with the look he’d throw a police officer about to cuff him, or a gunman about to shoot him – staring towards the barrel of a gun and standing tall – and dragging his shirt off, mucking up his curls for them to slip towards his shoulders.

 Grantaire swallowed; Enjolras was strong, muscled and toned without being ridiculous(he’d seen Bahorel naked once and it had been traumatic for both involved – he looked like he lived on steroids, but it was all natural, and okay he _really_ had to stop thinking about Bahorel naked) and then a smirk slid across his face; he was devilish and dishevelled and _god_ he was harder than perhaps he’d ever been before, and then Enjolras’s lips followed the pattern his hands had been tracing down Grantaire’s stomach, and he almost forgot to breathe, and there were clever fingers flicking across his belt buckle and clever teeth drawing back his boxers – and he thought for a second about the scars that tracked their way across his body but then Enjolras _licked_ across one and he figured it would be okay -

  “Fuck,” and he wasn’t usually this vocal but there was something about the feel of those lips teasing their way down his chest. “But how glorious to release them in a single burst! Fuck, _Enjolras_ , to sing, to scream, to dance barefoot –“ and he breaks off, gasping for breath. Enjolras, who had been sitting and breathing lightly onto Grantaire’s cock as if he’d never seen one before (and it wouldn’t be a surprise if that had been the case), looked up at him through his hair.

  He rose – far too carefully to be in control fully – to his feet and looked Grantaire square in the face. “Do you actually have a bed, or is it just a heap of unwashed clothes?”

 Grantaire frowned, reached out to shove at his chest, but instead slipped his fingers into Enjolras’s pockets again. “Shut up – “ and Enjolras replied with “Make me,” so quickly that it must have been a set-up to have an excuse to kiss him, and their mouths were hungrier this time and their hands were greedier, and buttons were undone and zips were pulled open with sounds that curled at the base of Enjolras’s spine and made Grantaire’s words twist.

 “Do you know – how long I’ve thought about this? I mean, not in a creepy way, just you and me and – “ he was on the mattress now (the bed having been broken a while ago by someone who may have been called Dean), gazing up at Enjolras, words tripping off his tongue like a monk prays to God, and Enjolras’s weight – solid muscle, fluffy hair – was on him. Enjolras pressed a slender finger to his babbling lips, and asked, brightly – “What was that thing you were reading? Beauty is terror? Go on, I’m intrigued,” and Grantaire’s blood had now definitely left his brain because Enjolras was touching him with none of the awkwardness he’d expect from a virgin, but then Enjolras was almost never awkward and his nails were neatly clipped and his hands were callused slightly from writing.

 “These are – jesus christ, if you don’t stop that – powerful mysteries – and god don’t stop, the only mystery is how you’re so fucking good at touching me – “ and Enjolras smirked once, a cruel and terrible smirk.

 “You think I’ve never touched myself?”, and he twisted his wrist in a way that would have made Grantaire’s legs buckle, had he not been lying down already. “You think I’ve not done research?” He laughed, once, and his hand shook as he laughed and Grantaire cursed and balled his fingers in the sheet. “What was it you said once? Dedicated to the point of obsession? No point going into something – or someone – “ and Grantaire _moaned_ at that and knocked his hand aside – “and I suppose I’ll have to fuck you now.” He shrugged, and Grantaire muttered “you _fucker_ ” under his breath.

  “I think that’s the point of this, yeah,” and Grantaire whispered, furious, against his neck that “how can you be sarcastic now, I’m the sarcastic one,” and Enjolras raised an eyebrow and the curtains were still open to the garden outside, and the sky was bright blue, darkening slightly at the corner, and then Enjolras uncapped the bottle (new, in case he’d got ideas) that had been on Grantaire’s bedside table since the first night they’d kissed, angry and unsure, in Courf’s kitchen, and then condoms had appeared – and they weren’t his, so he blamed Joly, which meant Enjolras had thought about this and _fuck_ that was a weird thought, Enjolras thinking of this as he touched himself, because he didn’t need anybody.

 And whatever he’d watched (Gay Sex for Virgins 101, probably) had been fucking informative or maybe he’d just tried this on his own and the thought of Enjolras, probably biting his lip like he did whenever he was concentrating, doing this – but his thoughts juddered when Enjolras looked at him, hesitant for the first time. “You do know that I’m – “ and Grantaire sat up to meet him, kissing him (softly, chastely) and said “We don’t have to – “, and Enjolras looked up at him from under his long eyelashes and said “but I _want_ to,”.

 Grantaire felt desire spike through him again, but Enjolras (obstinate, so proud he’d once worn a Gay Pride shirt for the whole day even after Bahorel had thrown up on it, because “vomit does not ruin the message”) held his shoulders and rolled them over, gently. “I did research on this, too,” and he grins so wickedly that Grantaire laughed against his chest.

 “And you’re sure? I mean, I hate to bring up Jehan when we’re naked but he feels very strongly about consent – “ and Enjolras rolled his eyes (and his body, and Grantaire swore like a sailor), and spread his legs with an arrogant smirk that suggests he knew what he’s doing this time. “It’s easier usually for your first time if – “ and Enjolras twisted at his nipple until he gasped before saying sweetly that “If I’d wanted easier I wouldn’t be in bed with a cynical drifter,” and Grantaire frowned before conceding that yes, okay, fair point. He’d have said something but he was crowded back against the pillows

 Enjolras was a sight to behold, hard and looking at him with an expression of fierce joy. His hair had been messed up by Grantaire’s frantic fingers, his skin was marked by fingers and tongue and

 “You’re meant to be fucking me, not looking at me,” and he must have never been scared of anything, because he wriggles like a cat when Grantaire starts touching him, but only pauses in his movements (aligned, Grantaire belatedly realises) to the rhythm of his fingers, which _fuck_ he did good research, to half-beg for “More, fucking dammit,” and he’s falling apart at the seams because of Grantaire’s fingers, and then when Grantaire complied he arched his back, muscles in his chest shifting as Grantaire gets the angle right with a strangled “ _fuck_ ” -and when the hell did he work out, because he didn’t have the time to go to the cinema with Combeferre last week – and of course he’s a demanding bastard in bed –

 Enjolras is watching him carefully, and as Grantaire moved to press his lips into the curve of his hipbones he bucked them, and forced out “I’m ready,” and when Grantaire digs his hands into his hips again to pull him closer, he hisses under his breath.

 “You have to tell me, if you want to stop, you – “ and Enjolras cut him off by kissing him greedily, biting his lip, and his hands flew across Grantaire’s back, skimming across the vertebrae until they were close enough to wear as a second skin. “Get on with it,” Enjolras urged, and the idea that arrogant, confident Enjolras was begging – and this would probably be the first and only time they’d fuck this way, so he’d have to enjoy it whilst it lasted, made Grantaire strengthen his resolve and their eyes met and they didn’t look away; he was ready, at the slightest hint of actual pain, to stop, but Enjolras’s face didn’t change. “You can move, you know,” his pupils blown with desire.

 “You okay?” Grantaire said, voice rough with lust. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. His arms, where they shake on the bed, came up to roam across his back again, fixing in his hair, and then he whispered “move,” and Grantaire did, and this was infinitely better than he could have ever imagined because the heat and the friction and he was so _welcome_ , and Enjolras groaned and moved his hips wantonly, and he wouldn’t last long because it’s been too long since he jerked off, fast and guiltily, in the bathroom, biting his arm to stop himself moaning a name.

 Enjolras kissed him – they kissed, but Grantaire wasn’t sure who reached out to tug their heads closer – and his hands were moving faster than looked comfortable but he must have been close because soon he was moving, like a wave at sea. “Fuck, I’m close,” he choked out, and this was almost embarrassingly soon, but Enjolras half-laughed and said “God, same, if I’d known –“ and Grantaire reached out to close a hand over Enjolras’s and then Enjolras threw back his head, hair awry, neck patterned with bruises, and he came in between their stomachs, gasping out obscenities, back bending like a bow -

With  a groan of something that was half-curse, half-“Enjolras”, Grantaire spills over the edge, kissing Enjolras even as his muscles spasm and he’s fucking _blessed_ and his toes curl, and Enjolras has taken away all his words –

 they lay in silence for a long time, breathing heavily. Grantaire moved to rest his head on Enjolras’s flung-out arm, and kissed the crook of his elbow lazily; Enjolras smiled at him, without any of the contempt he’d been used to, and then he starts thinking again and _fuck_.

  “So – “ and Enjolras rolled his eyes, half-sitting up to look at Grantaire.

 “We can’t just have sex – like that – and then go back to awkward kisses in hallways and slightly suggestive texts, you know,” he said, pushing a stray curl out of his eye. His cheeks were red and he had only half-wiped himself clean (on Grantaire’s duvet, which, no) and his movements were slower, almost languidly so. There were pink-purple bruises all over his chest and thighs. “Stop staring, we need to talk,” he snapped, and reached out blindly for his boxers.

 Grantaire looked up at him, and sat up as well. “Wait, what are you saying? I mean – “

Enjolras cut him off with a sharp kiss. “I mean that if that’s how we fuck when we’ve been arguing, it seems to me to be a good omen,” he pointed out, and the thrill of his words – of just having _fucked Enjolras,_ and who would believe him? – shocked him.

 “Next time – “ he started, but Enjolras kissed him again, harder and more insistently. “Could you just shut up, and maybe enjoy the moment? Tell Courfeyrac and you’re dead, but we could just… be for a bit.”

 Grantaire shut up.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bedroom tax protest, tory-bashing, lavender cookies, cynicism  
> "witty" signs from courfeyrac

The rain was drumming down on the pavements, and hammering the roads and street signs, and the bullet-proof riot gear of the police officers was dripping. Riot shields forced the deluge to the gutter, where it overflowed and soaked the feet of the crowd, and anger rippled through the air; smoke scattered by the rain shrouded the sun.

 People from all walks of life – people from council houses and Victorian 4-bed-semis and terraces and cottages; people who had walked from building sites and offices and classrooms; people wearing the fixed stare and yellow jacket of the traffic warden stood shoulder-to-shoulder with young City rats and elderly army officers.

 Enjolras – Combeferre at his side – was standing slightly ahead of the group, arguing with a police officer; his jacket was once red, but now a darkened brown from the rain, and as he spoke, he dashed rainwater out of his eyes angrily (he’d neglected to take an umbrella, in case it was seen as a deadly weapon), and Combeferre looked around the crowd, eyes screwed up against the wind. There was a smaller group of supporters of the tax - peers, mainly - huddled in their fut coats.

 Jehan was standing next to Courfeyrac, looking slightly incongruous with a large box of what appeared to be baked goods; he was holding a sign which proclaimed “the pen is mightier than the sword – up to a point!” and which he’d covered with liberal amounts of glitter, because as he'd pointed out to Bossuet - "Shakespeare quotes, terrible puns, and the hint that I am a nice person at heart,". Courfeyrac’s sign simply said “We Will Rock You,” which he’d been allowed to get away with, since at the time of making Enjolras had been distracted every time Grantaire did anything, like talk or move or breathe.

 Joly stood at the side by a rickety table he’d liberated from a café, where he’d set up a “roving healthcare centre, free at the point of delivery”, according to the badly-written sign that Bossuet had put up. He didn’t have a sign, but Bossuet’s said “I’m a pacifist – look what you made me do!” for him,  and Musichetta’s sign roared “These are my platonic life partners, because the government fucks me every day.”. Her shirt – like the shirts of the others – was slowly growing see-through, and as the clock struck ten, Bossuet pressed a fierce kiss to her damp hair.

 Marius was standing with Cosette and Éponine, and his sign (designed by Courfeyrac, obviously) had a picture of a calf, and the legend “You’re making a miSTEAK” – which, when Enjolras had seen it, caused him to press a hand to his forehead until Combeferre had lured him out of his sulk with a box of TicTacs and a Robespierre quote – and Cosette’s said “We’re all in it together – but some are in deeper than others!”; Éponine’s boasted “I Will Fuck You Up”. Enjolras had winced at that one.

 Bahorel clutched a placard reading “Dumbledore wouldn’t let this happen,” and Feuilly – hair gleaming ginger in the rain – had one which said “You can’t Weasley your way out of this one!” They’d made them drunk a few nights before the protest, unaided by either Combeferre or Enjolras, since both were “occupied”.

 Grantaire, standing in front of Enjolras, had a sign (a page torn from his scrapbook) which read simply “can u not”, and he’d taken care to pour his fair-trade coffee from the shop round the corner into a Starbucks cup. “Just in case Louise Mensch is watching,” he’d told Feuilly, smiling widely.

 Enjolras turned on his heel, the policeman still shouting at him, and moved to a stand up on a bench. “The bedroom tax,” he called, and the crowd fell silent. “Is demonising the poor. It’s insinuating that it’s our fault – “ and the crowd roared – “that we live as we do. We can’t all be Tory ministers with an eight-bedroom mansion in the country! We can’t all be peers or landed gentry! We didn’t all go to Eton, or Oxbridge, and we don’t deserve to be treated as if this is our fault.” He paused, and looked out at the crowd, seeming to fix every face with his, and they gazed back, enraptured. He was, Grantaire considered, very pretty when his shirt was clinging to him. 

 “The rich, the fat ones, sit gorging themselves on the things they rip with careless fingers from the rest of us. Living standards are dwindling, inflation is roaring ahead, and if we tolerate this – “ and even the police, shifting behind their lines, had fallen silent – “our children will be next. Our grandchildren. Our friends.  In Hull,” and he gestured to the skies, rain torrenting down his neck – “almost 5,000 families will have to pay up – the consequence for having a _home,_ not just a house, and the government doesn't seem to know the difference – or move out. These aren’t just benefit cuts, they’re a systematic attack on the people of this land.” He paused again, and his words were fire and flame and righteous anger; the crowd clapped and stamped, the sound gathering and ebbing, animalistic now, a pack of hungry wolves, starving for redemption and equality. 

 “Almost a million households will be affected. A million people, forced from their homes to save money that could – “ his voice rose, echoed round the buildings – “have been raised from, I don’t know – “ and there was a bitter, acerbic edge to his voice, but he was astonishing – “MPs paying their expenses? Companies paying taxes? And yet, the government is content to allow this _mockery_ , this shambles of a democracy, to go on? How much longer will you tolerate this? They stamp the ashes of our society beneath their high heels and Jermyn Street brogues, but the flames must only flicker. Someone has to do something." He looked out to the back of the gathering crowd, and thunder trundled overhead. "We are someone. It's time to do something.” The crowd roared as one in solidarity.

 Combeferre clambered up beside him, and simply said “We must – civilly - take sides,” and over to the edge, an overzealous protester rushed forwards, yelling something that sounded like a name. The crowd surged as one; Bahorel got an elbow to his nose, and pushed back, nose dripping gore to splash into the puddles; Musichetta spat in the face of a policeman who’d used his shield as a weapon; Éponine found herself wrestled to the floor by another officer, for the heady crime of trying to pull Marius back from punching a Tory voter, there for the fighting. Courfeyrac was kicked in the shin, and went down like a football player after a penalty, and Jehan knocked out the man who’d done it and then _carried_ him, like a baby, to the roving healthcare centre where Joly dispensed triangular bandages and “I knew this would happen” faces. Flames burst up in the street, but the rain put them out immediately.  

 The police closed ranks, forcing the mess of people backwards to the imposing walls of the bank. A windowpane was smashed, and glass fell in the puddles. “You’re kettling us?” Grantaire asked, far too sober for this, and at the grim nod of confirmation he felt his spirits inexplicably rise. “Can you not?” he added, jabbing upwards at his sign, but they ignored him. He set his jaw – because if he could annoy Enjolras, a policeman should be easy pickings – and asked (in the nicest voice he could) “You’re the flying monkeys of the Wicked Witch – “ and at the policeman’s stoic expression, he tried again. “That wasn’t even a Thatcher reference. You’re probably not going to believe me but I didn’t buy that song. I mean, if I bought music – not that I download it – “ and the policeman frowned at him.

 “Go away,” he was told, and he sighed before forcing his way through the chanting crowd. Jehan (still clutching his baked items) sat on Courfeyrac’s stomach, kissing him obscenely despite the glances of the crowd. His jumper was soaked through, but he was smiling strangely – the light of rebellion gleaming in his eye, as those years of being forced to wear suits to church were at last buried – and he looked happy, so Grantaire turned again.

 “I can’t believe you even came,” Feuilly said, cigarette clenched between his teeth. Grantaire fumbled in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, but Feuilly shook his head. “No point. It’s not lit – the rain put it out. I just want to feel better, and also to get on television smoking. Bahorel’s been arrested,” he confided, and he looked adrift. Grantaire moved closer to him.

 “I’m guessing he assaulted – “ Feuilly sighed at him. “He helped up a woman, and a policeman knocked her back down again, so he shoved him away. And Enjolras is over there,” and he gestured to a police van, where he could just make out Enjolras, sat in the back. “Yes, he is wearing handcuffs, but that doesn’t mean you can get hard here. Time and place,” and Feuilly turned to look around the kettle.

 “The soft-porn show – “ he pointed to Jehan and Courfeyrac, closer than a second skin now – “are here. Erm, Chetta got arrested for the same as Bahorel – Enjolras and Combeferre apparently incited violence – and I think Marius is down there trying to sort it. Cosette and Éponine are fine – they’re on telly though, which I can imagine Cosette’s dad won’t be happy about. Pretty girls with see-through tops and on-the-ball political analysis, as well as the accent of the rich and the experience of the poor, make for good sound-bites,” and he tapped his nose wisely. This, Grantaire assumed, was a habit he’d picked up from - 

 “Joly? Bossuet?” he asked, and he didn’t have his hipflask with him, so muttered “fuck the rain” and lit a cigarette – he needed a smoke, but he needed a smoke because he needed a drink, one vice for another. Feuilly nodded. “On the roving healthcare thing. Doing a roaring trade. No hidden costs, no paedophiles, no dodgy heart surgery – not a single panic attack in sight. He’s done well. We must buy him a drink,” and Grantaire nodded.

  Jehan and Courfeyrac were now half-naked, sodden shirts discarded, hands roaming and wild and a little disgusting, if Grantaire was honest.

 Time stretched; the clock struck eleven and then twelve, and the rain kept falling. At last – after an age of horrifically butchered e.e cummings quotes from Courfeyrac, and some sort of whine from Jehan that had gone on forever – the policeman closest to Grantaire nodded. “Alright, you can go. Go home, don’t get into any trouble – “ but Grantaire and Feuilly had bolted for the street, to Feuilly’s shitty car, and before the policeman could ask for names or addresses or (as Feuilly whispered) to “carry them off to Oz or whatever it was I’m moderately buzzed”, they had driven off.

 The drive to the police station was mostly silent. Grantaire poked desperately at his phone, and it switched itself on with a buzz. “ _Fuck,_ ” he said, slumping forwards to hit his head against the dashboard.

 “Careful,” Feuilly muttered, glancing over. “You’ll set the airbag off – what’s up?” He turned back to the road, and then, at the lack of response, sighed loudly.

 “A missed call,” Grantaire whispered robotically. “A missed call from Enjolras. I was his phonecall.” and he wailed, before starting to dial.

 “Hey, hey, they won’t let him answer. He wanted to get arrested – “ and Grantaire looked up at him, aghast. He tried to form words, but they wouldn’t come, and so he slumped back against the headrest to wait out the rest of the drive.

 They knew Grantaire well at the police station – almost as well as at the hospital, because he’d been sick in enough cells for them to have a bucket on standby for the next time he was dragged through the door. This, however, was the first time since he was a kid, getting his fingerprints done on an open day – and he hoped they didn’t keep them, because if so he’d have an issue – that he’d come in of his own volition. He nodded briefly at the desk sergeant, who buzzed him through (having recognised the entire gang from picking him up) before turning the corner to the cells.

“Grantaire,” Marius half-yelled, seeing him. “Enjolras is annoyed. I showed up, he asked me why I wasn't in there with him. He tried to phone you but your phone – “

 “Was switched off, yes, I’m an idiot,” Grantaire told him, and sighed. “What’s – “

 The door at the end of the corridor opened with a groan, and Enjolras marched out, followed by Combeferre (dialling a number), Musichetta, who held her head high and smiled haughtily, and Bahorel – as battered as after a night of fighting, bruises blooming under his eyes. “They got me,” he said, smiling to reveal a mouth that was bloody, and he pulled Feuilly into a tight hug. “Platonic life partners – “ Musichetta started, but Feuilly simply gave her the finger.

 “So, I hear you got yourself _arrested deliberately_ ,” Grantaire said, as casually as he could. “Which is a basically stupid thing to do because you’ve got classes and interviews and jobs and a record wow – “ but Enjolras cut him off sharply. “I wanted to do something visible. I gave an interview, whilst you were probably eating lavender scones – where _is_ Jehan, by the way? and people listened.”

 Grantaire snorted. “It was meant to be peaceful, and then you go and fucking tell people if they don’t do anything it’ll be their children? Even mention fire to those people, those desperate people, and they'll torch the world! Do you have any idea how people _react_ when people they – people they love,” and he couldn’t meet Enjolras’s eye – “are threatened? I mean, you’re pretty incapable of emotion – “

 “Grantaire,” Combeferre said, a warning, but Grantaire was angry and resentful that he hadn’t been arrested (because he could pontificate all he liked, but he was particular to a certain cell), but as he rounded the corner and prepared to storm out, Jehan and Courfeyrac (fully clothed this time), with Bossuet and Joly, walked into them. The latter two rushed to Musichetta, exclaiming over her bravery and the marks they could see from the plastic handcuffs, and she pulled them into her arms and held them tight.

 “We thought we’d see what kept you,” Courfeyrac explained, and Bahorel rolled his bruised eyes. 

 “Cookie?” Jehan asked, proffering the battered box to all of them.

 Enjolras half-laughed, and took one. Grantaire, reaching in to take his own, felt their hands touch. He smiled.

“They’re lavender,” Jehan added. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bedroom tax is a thing. google it. weep in fear at the british government. 
> 
> we are not the playthings of politicians


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire are actually doing some work.   
>  Enjolras is patriotic, Grantaire is somewhat despondent, but drinks bad coffee to get over it.

“You know,” Grantaire told him in the library, running his thumb down the seam of Enjolras’s shirt, “for a republican, you’re obsessed with monarchy – “

 Enjolras caught his hand, and shrugged without looking up from the book. “It’s – research, I suppose. Those rubbish soaps that Courfeyrac has got Marius hooked on, but on a continental scale. The old monarchies that rose from the tribes in the swamps of Europe, the new ones that forced the crowns onto their heads and welded them there, the unwilling kings and cruel queens and gentle princes. The queens who didn’t give a damn what the people thought of them, as long as their sons would be crowned next.” He flipped a page, and looked over his shoulder at Enjolras.

 “Anyway, I’m a history student as well as a politics student. It’s my prerogative. You should be working – what is it you’re doing now? Something about Agrippina and sculpture? She’s interesting. Combeferre told me – “

 Grantaire pushed his chair back, and the rest of the library turned to glare at him; he winked at them, and dug some change out of his pocket. “I need a coffee for this, you want one?” but Enjolras shook his head, and turned back to his books.

 “Seriously though,” and Grantaire was back, with two coffees – “I know your “dying-for-caffeine-but-must-not-express-weakness” face as well as I know the rest of them. You owe me,” – and Enjolras rolled his eyes but was unable to say anything, because Grantaire knew him better than he knew himself. “A product of dedicated stalking,” Bahorel had muttered the first time they realised the depth of his knowledge, and Grantaire had shot him a mock salute.

 “No, but, well. How can you go on and on about how much you want liberty and equality and all those pipe dreams but still love Machiavelli? I mean, I’m no expert, but they seem to be polar opposites – “ and he took a sip of coffee, scalded his tongue, took another sip and grimaced – “all that “better to be feared than loved” bollocks which quite frankly I think is not the sort of thing you should be a fan of, especially given how much of a pushover you are in bed – “

 “Okay,” Enjolras told him, cheeks threatening to blush. “It intrigues me. History – the things people do for power, the people they fight and the underhand and the lies, the sex and the violence – “

 Grantaire interrupted again. “Firstly, you sound like you’re doing work experience for the fucking History Channel. Secondly, people do that nowadays – “

 Enjolras leaned forwards, book forgotten. “You don’t – it’s not the same. Nowadays, in the Western world at least, the monarchies that are clinging on by the skin of their privately-paid-for teeth are mostly constitutional. They don’t have much real power, although they can approve and refuse things in the governments of their countries. They’re just relics.”

 He pulled the book towards him again, and flipped to a colour plate.

“Is that a kids’ book – “ Grantaire started, but Enjolras held up a hand to silence him.

 “Okay, it is a book for children, yes. I had one the same when I was younger. You might like it actually – myths and legends in the front, the story of Albion and Poseidon. But we don’t have to go into mythology right now because there will be a Classics or Art crossover and I’ll have to use my tie to shut you up – “ and Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Enjolras went on.

 “So, when I was little, I’d read a lot. I’d read all about the people who lived in this country before we did – I mean, given that my parents came over from France, before Britain as we know it. And I’d read about the wars and the intrigue and the games that kings played with their subjects, and the stalemate rebellions, the coups, the depositions.” He flipped the page again, and pointed to a plate showing Nelson. “The idea of dying for your country – hear me out,” he warned, as Grantaire raised an eyebrow – “of having something concrete to die for, has always appealed to me.”

 “Are you going off on a patriotism rant in a library, again? We will get kicked out, and you won’t finish your essay except you’ll still get full marks, and I will never find out about stone penises cut off by Romans. Feuilly’s grandfather was in the Polish Resistance, did you know that? And his grandmother, it’s how they met. And they died for their country, and when he’s drunk enough he tells me he’d do it too.” He looked up, suddenly sombre, and took another sip from the coffee, wrinkling his nose.

 “I would, though,” Enjolras told him, quietly. “I’d die for the hills, for the stony beaches and the quiet fields, and for the skies, and the sun on the barley when it’s growing – “

 “You sound like a country bumpkin, you know that? Or Jehan, that time he stole Montparnasse’s weed. Seriously, where are your family from? Provence by way of _Dorset_ -“ and Grantaire fell silent, and then looked up. “I don’t know, if I could die for a cause that wouldn’t succeed. To die for an idea. It seems – well, it seems laughable to me. But I’d die for someone,” and his hair fell across his face and Enjolras stretched his hand across the books on the table to hold his, in time to hear him whisper, “I’d die for you.”

 Enjolras nodded once. “Well,” he said, bracingly, and Grantaire was reminded of the time he’d told him to stop drinking, in front of his entire art class. His face was set in determination, his eyes were steely, and when he spoke, his voice was quietly burning. “I hope it’ll never come to that. But, if it were to happen, I suppose – and this is ridiculous, we’re students, we’re not doing to die – “

 “Students have died for a cause before,” Grantaire reminded him, nodding to a poster on the wall about Tiananmen Square. “That, and more besides – “ but Enjolras pressed a kiss to the hand he still held, and then leaned across the table to cup his jaw in his hands. 

“I was going to say. If it comes to that, I wouldn’t mind dying if it could be like this,” and he gestured to their clasped hands. “And yes, you can shoot me if the others hear that, they’ll be cracking jokes about my façade crumbling or the ice melting or god knows what. And anyway, focus doesn’t mean _boring as hell unloving bastard_ ,” and Grantaire shrugged like it meant nothing, but tightened his fingers on Enjolras’s hand.

 Enjolras smiled back at him. “Enough soppiness. Test me on Richard II and the end of his reign,” and Grantaire barked out a laugh before hefting the book towards himself with a sharp retort; Enjolras kept smiling.

 “It’s creepy,” Grantaire told him, fighting to keep his own grin from spreading. “We haven’t had a fight in _at least_ three days, don’t let it be about stupid expressions – “ and Enjolras nodded.

 “So. Tell me how to depose a megalomaniacal ruler who believes he has God on his side,” Grantaire asked him.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Power,” he said. “That, and conviction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iM SO SORRY THIS TOOK 84 YRS I went crazy for a bit all the best people do   
>  erm yeah, so this is British history obviously [look up Richard II and cry] [cry over history and you will become me]


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire slips back into old habits, and falls harder than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based off a time when a friend of mine did something similar, and I had to help pick up the pieces. It's not necessarily representative of all experiences with accidental overdose.

“Where’s Grantaire?” Marius asked, dropping his bag to the floor of Courfeyrac’s hall with a thud. “It’s just that he usually waits for me after linguistics and we walk to lunch, and I know he’s been making an effort to remember lately. I mean, this is the first time he’s forgotten in a while. Since he and Enjolras started properly seeing each other – rather than just circling each other like caged lions, that is – “

 Enjolras looked up. “What do you mean?”

Marius bent down to pick up his bag again, and rifled through it. “Well, you could almost cut the sexual tension with a knife. And you used to sort of look at him, and then pretend you weren’t, and he’d do the same – “

 Enjolras interrupted him again. “No, what do you mean about him not being there? Did you call him?”

 “He didn’t answer, but he should have done. I can’t find my phone, damn - Courfeyrac changed all the names on his phone to Enjolras, so that he’d answer – remember how he used to just ignore us, if he was scoring drugs?” and then Marius swore under his breath, and Combeferre grabbed the car keys from the kitchen table, and his own phone.

 “Where might he go? Where did he used to go? Jehan went with him once, and Éponine did, a few times – I know Montparnasse used to sell to him, but he told me once he’d been cut off, something about a bad blowjob.” Combeferre said, voice calm, but he was spinning the car keys between his fingers.

 “We can’t just rush off without knowing where he’ll be,” Enjolras said, and then he raked a hand through his hair. “Shit,” and Courfeyrac and Jehan emerged from the bedroom.

 “We heard shouting – is everything okay?” Jehan asked, pulling a jumper over his head, as Courfeyrac fumbled with the zip on his trousers.

“Grantaire’s – well. We think he’s using again,” Combeferre admitted, before answering the vibrating phone that threatened to fall off the table. “Éponine? Grantaire’s using,” and they all heard her swear from the other end of the line. “No, we don’t know – but now I think about it, the signs were there,” and Enjolras’s eyes snapped to his face. He turned his back. “Do you know where he might have gone? Who did he used to buy from?” His face turned ashen, but he nodded. “We’re on our way.”

 “Éponine thinks he might have gone to Montparnasse again. She reckons he’d only pay for this, nothing more, Enjolras,” but Enjolras’s face didn’t change.

“We need to find him. And on the way, Combeferre,” and his voice was ice and fire and rage, “You are going to explain to me _precisely_ how you missed these signs, and when you saw the first one. I knew he was stressed, and he’d been acting a little off, but - ”

 “The others are all in class, Joly and Bossuet are in quarantine and Feuilly’s at work – do I need to get them?” Courfeyrac asked, pulling his brogues on, and Jehan shook his head.

 “Get Bahorel,” he said after a moment’s thought. “If Claquesous or Babet are there, they’re his heavies. And I sound like a cliché but they’ll be heavily armed. I seem to remember them both having a fondness for hammers and kneecaps.” He fell silent.

 “Come on, then,” Marius said, and the door slammed so hard behind them that it swung open again, gaping.

  The car lurched through the streets; Combeferre was a good driver at the best of times, but this was as far from the best of times as possible. Éponine called again, and told them that one of her sister’s friends had seen Grantaire outside Montparnasse’s. Feuilly texted from work, reminding them that he had grown up with Montparnasse and he should be there, and then he and Bahorel showed up on the corner, and the car squealed to a halt and they squeezed in.

 “So, these warning signs,” Enjolras began, slowly. “We have a good half-hour before we’re there, and I want to shout at somebody. I hope I can shout at Grantaire, but he’ll probably be off on one for a couple of days, and so it will have to wait. So. I’m all ears.”

 Combeferre sighed. “He’s been stressed lately. More work, less time to do it in – and I’m not blaming you – and money worries. Which he didn’t tell you about, because he was afraid that you’d get irritated he spends his pitiful wages on what I thought were art supplies – that’s what he told me, but now I’m afraid he was buying from Montparnasse. He’d been drinking more and more – did you notice? You’ve been busy, too. And he was reminiscing – “

 From the back of the car, curled around Courfeyrac, Jehan spoke up. “He was saying that everything was better when he was using, and that whatever happened you were disappointed with him. And that at least this way it would be his behaviour and not his personality. His self-worth’s through the floor at the moment. He stopped that rubber-band distraction thing.” He paused, and looked down at his hands.

 “He used you as a distraction from drugs and from self-destruction,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “And you’ve been so busy with this Syria thing that you’ve been out a lot, and he misses you. I’m not passing judgement,” he hastened to add, meeting Enjolras’s eyes in the wing mirror. “I’m just saying.”

 Enjolras nodded. “So, my – well, we don’t like the word boyfriend, but Grantaire – has been heading for a relapse, and everyone noticed it but me? Did he notice?”

 “He knew, I think,” Bahorel said. “But I think he was lying to himself about it, as well as everyone else. He’d been going out at strange times, coming in at unholy hours, mainly to our place, because you were working, and he told me that there were only three ways out.” He stopped speaking, and Feuilly carried on for him.

 “He was talking, one night, about suicide. He was wasted, of course – wasted in a way I haven’t seen for a good long time now, and he kept passing out. But he managed to say, in between the vomit, that he was either going to go mad, kill himself, or relapse. I’m worried he might be doing all three.”

 “Spare the histrionics, please,” Combeferre said, pulling into the lone parking space outside Montparnasse’s house. “He might not have taken anything.

“Yeah, he’s only been gone a couple of hours,” Marius added, opening the door. “I feel like this is the first time anything we’ve done has actually directly helped someone, you know,” he said, and Enjolras threw him a tight-lipped glare.

“Not the time, Marius,” Bahorel said, and Combeferre went to lock the car door.

“We should leave it unlocked, in case – in case we need to get him away,” he said, and Enjolras nodded.

 The front door of the house was hanging off its hinges, as if it had been punched, and a shattered flowerpot lay on the doorstep, contents sprawled across the path. Enjolras nodded at Combeferre, and they went in.

 “This is a bad idea,” Marius confided to Jehan. “I wish the girls were here,” he muttered, and stepped gingerly over the shards of pottery in the doorway.

 Grantaire was slumped against the wall in what looked like the kitchen, and fresh bruises were blooming under the stubble on his greying face, and his eyes were half-closed. “Friends,” he said, and Enjolras could tell that it would have been bombastic, if he had been able to manage it.

 “Grantaire,” he said, evenly, but didn’t move towards him. Montparnasse appeared from the back room, and a slow smile spread across his face.

 “Long time, no see, posh boy,” he said, and held a glass of water out towards Grantaire, but then smirked, and tipped it over his head. Grantaire didn’t even splutter.

 “What have you given him?” Combeferre asked, and Bahorel shifted behind him.

 “Given him?  We’ve given him nothing, isn’t that right?” Claquesous said, ugly face stretched into a smirk to mirror Montparnasse, and Babet emerged from where he had been looking in one of the cupboards.

“He bought this, and we’re only businessmen. But, well. We aspire to all vices, and Grantaire here has quite the vice,” and his laugh was cruel.

 “We’re taking him home,” Enjolras told them, and grabbed one of Grantaire’s arms. Grantaire shook him off, and tilted his head back against the wall.

 “He’s been rambling a lot though. About Satan and angels and gods and all sorts, and it’s getting annoying. We were going to shut him up,” and Montparnasse nodded towards a needle on the floor besides Grantaire. “But, well – you should take him, actually. We have other distractions to arrange,” and Feuilly caught the unmistakeable glint of a knife between his fingers, and crouched down beside Grantaire with Enjolras.

“Grantaire? Can you – can you stand up?” he asked, hair falling in front of his face.

Grantaire just laughed. “Why,” he said slowly, “does Satan get such bad press? The original libertine, the first revolutionary, the emancipator of worlds, the origin of freedom – right up your street, Enjolras, and yet you ignore all that religious stuff. I suppose most of my character is based on being a recovering Catholic – although I’ve been doing so badly lately that I might just go back to mass on Sunday. It’s all crap. I wish I could be religious,” and his voice tailed off.

 “What’s he taken, Montparnasse? I will call the police - Javert may dislike us due to Courfeyrac’s worrying habit of stealing biscuits from coffeeshops, but he won’t turn a blind eye to this.” The group turned as one to look at Marius, and he dropped his eyes. “Cosette’s dad knows him,” he muttered, and shrugged.

 Montparnasse sighed. “He took whatever I had to give him. He offered all his money, actually – he would have given him his PIN number, if I had asked. He was desperate to fuck himself up, and I had to let him, really. Poor business sense to do otherwise – but it’s heroin, I think. I didn’t know he had the stomach for needles, actually – rather impressed – but it seems to have worn off a bit now. At least he’s talking,” and he shrugged.

 “He needs to go to hospital.” Combeferre said, and this time Grantaire allowed himself to be lifted up, and as soon as his head hit the back seat, he passed out again; they made it to the hospital in record time, and one look at Enjolras’s face was enough to bump them up to priority.

 “Joly’s not on duty today – what is it he’s convinced himself he’s got this time? He thinks he might have mad cow disease, and he’s taken a day off to remove all the beef we have as a group, and Bossuet is helping,” Courfeyrac told them, as the nurses rushed around them, and the machines beeped.

“He’s taken heroin, and I think it’s the first time, and his breathing is shallow and his fingers are blue,” Enjolras told the doctor, and the woman’s face didn’t flicker.

“Okay,” she said, and vanished out of the room, calling as she went.

 “They’ll inject him with an opioid antagonist,” Bahorel said, and they all looked up at him. “Text from Joly – he feels terrible, by the way, and he’s vacuumed his flat seven times today,” he added, and then the doctor returned, and they were all ushered out of the room.

“Can’t I – “ Enjolras started, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s not protocol,” she said, and she looked contrite enough that he fell to pacing the corridor outside the ward.

 They had migrated to the orange chairs on the side of the corridor, and Marius had stretched out on the floor and fallen asleep, by the time the doctor came to talk to them.

 “You can see him now,” she said, and Enjolras got to his feet; Courfeyrac and Jehan followed in a tangle of limbs, and Marius sat up.

 “Is he – is he alright?” he asked, forcing the hope that leaped in his chest.

 She smiled. “It was touch and go for a bit, but he’s going to be alright. And, well. It wasn’t his first time taking it, according to his _extensive_ file,” she admitted, and then looked at her feet. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. But, you’re Enjolras, right? He asked for you, in between talking about religion and mythology – the delirium should be over by now.”

 “No, he’s like that all the time,” Jehan said seriously, and Enjolras smiled.

“I suppose there are – well, I’m not sure if he needs a programme, but some sort of treatment? He’d persuaded himself he could get clean for me, but he needs to get clean for himself, really.” Enjolras said, and she duly handed him some leaflets.

 “He needs to get clean, full stop. If it’s for you initially, then that’s the first step on the ladder. But you can’t hold him to ideals like that – addiction is a complex beast,” and she stepped backwards to show them the open door. “He’ll wake up in about half an hour. He’s in pain, but I’m so sorry – we can’t give him pain relief just get. It’s too risky, given his history,” and Enjolras nodded.

 She turned to go, and then stopped. “He’s very lucky to have friends like you, and – he wouldn’t let me use the word boyfriend, but Enjolras – he’s lucky. In more ways than one. He should have died, by rights. His liver is damaged, for sure. Maybe his religious chanting paid off, but if he goes back to it, it could be catastrophic. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about the dangers of overdose, considering you’ve just had them played out in technicolour, but there are warning signs. He can’t drink, or smoke. One addiction leads to another. He shouldn’t see the people he used to use with, and he shouldn’t be around drinkers, either. It’s a cliché, but it is a slippery slope.”

 “Thank you,” Enjolras said softly, to her departing back.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire reconnect.  
> for [nightswatch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch)

“You can’t just expect us all to pretend that it didn’t happen, you know,” Enjolras said, after a week of tiptoeing and surly silences. “You’re not pathetic for slipping,” he tried again, but Grantaire refused to look at him, staring stubbornly at his phone. Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Your phone’s dead – you were complaining about it yesterday. And I – I want to be here for you, okay?”

 He rolled his shoulders back, and Grantaire’s eyes at last flickered over to him.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” he said, voice rough from disuse, and went back to phone-gazing.

“I can’t sleep because you’re using again,” Enjolras snapped, and then winced as if he could take the words back. “I didn’t mean – “

“It’s my fault,” Grantaire supplied dully, and looked at him. “I know that all those booklets you think you’ve hidden behind the breadbin will tell you that it is natural to be angry and upset, but that you should support your partner and try not to condemn them. Such condemnation – “ and his voice had risen slightly, until Enjolras heard Combeferre shift in the next room – “could lead the _addict_ ,” his voice a snarl now, “back into another relapse,” and he laughed at that. “I have read them,” he added, unnecessarily.

 The doorbell rang, and Enjolras looked round. “It’s unlocked,” he called, and Jehan poked his head around the door.

“You shouldn’t leave it open,” he told Enjolras sternly. “Now, go and talk to Combeferre about Ukraine,” and Enjolras sighed and left the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

“I know how you’re feeling; that itch under the skin, that lurching stomach, the headaches and dizziness and insomnia,” he said, fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt. “It’ll be over soon –“

 “I’m over it already, I think. But I can’t stop yawning still, and apparently I’m “even more irritable” than usual.  I’d only done smack a few times, you know – those times with you, and then last week. It’s the drink that’s still rotting me, and I can feel it,” Grantaire said quietly. “I mean, the first few days, the comedown, I don’t remember too much of. I was in hospital, wasn’t I?”

 Jehan looked at the closed door. “Enjolras didn’t tell you?”

Grantaire shrugged, but didn’t meet Jehan’s eyes. “I haven’t spoken to him, apart from asking for the milk at breakfast time. I’ve been painting – I had an idea, when I was in hospital. I’ve always been of the devil’s party – “

“Milton,” Jehan said, and grinned. “Puritan though he was, he did make the world’s worst enemy into an antihero – I like Milton,” and he scratched absentmindedly at his wrist, where he wore his watch. “It’s too big now,” he told Grantaire, showing him the way that the leather gaped across his bones.

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Just because I’m slipping back down into general death and destruction, with none of the fun stuff now that Enjolras is pulling the strings, doesn’t mean you can, as well. I thought you’d got over this?”

 “I thought you had got over this?” Jehan repeated to him, tilting his head to see the bandages which covered the needle marks over his elbow. Grantaire glowered at him.

“Éponine feels terrible, and Combeferre thinks he should have spotted the signs of relapse. _I_ should have spotted the signs, because I’ve felt them more than once. Joly is also beating himself up – “

Grantaire looked up at that. “He’s not – “

Jehan shoved his hair out of his eyes. “No, none of that,” and he smiled. “He’s not like us,” and Grantaire nodded.

“Enjolras has been phoning Courfeyrac, and probably Combeferre as well, every day. He says it’s to get advice, but really he’s just lonely, I think. Have you – “ and he paused.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’ve slept with you before, you idiot. Stop being bashful, it doesn’t suit you and no, we haven’t fucked since he dragged me out of a drug den. I’d imagine it would kill the mood,” and he sniffed. “God, I want a cigarette,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t asking about that. I was going to ask if you’d decided to get some treatment, for the drinking as well,” Jehan interrupted. “Also, you’re not supposed to smoke.”

 “I _know_. I’m also not supposed to drink or see anyone I used to drink with, which means our entire social circle is out. And I’m not meant to smoke –can’t they leave me with one vice? I’m a man of many and with none I’d be a fraction of who I am today. My entire personality is comprised of cigarettes and sarcasm and drunken interpretations of Nietzsche – “

 “No, it’s not,” Enjolras said, pushing the door open again. “I heard shouting, and just wanted to check on you,” he said, and handed Grantaire a cup of coffee, and Jehan took the cup of tea, and stood up to stretch. He looked at the two of them, and smiled.

“I’ll be at Courf’s,” he said, and kissed both their cheeks before closing the door behind him with a click.

Enjolras took a sip from his own coffee mug, which had been there since the previous night and was cold; he grimaced. “But, Grantaire,” he went on, sitting down next to him, “you are so much more than that. You’re – look at me, stop smirking – you’re funny, and your face is slightly ridiculous but I’m fond of it even so. You’re clever. I mean it; remember that time you ran rings around me when we were talking about conservatism? I may be from an upper-class background,” and his voice dropped, “not that it matters to self-claimed middle class David Cameron, but I’m not particularly upper class any more.”

 Grantaire looked at him. “You buy organic everything. You sulked when the shop was out of asparagus and you refuse to go to supermarkets because of ethical reasons. You – “

“You’ve derailed me without kissing me,” Enjolras said, quietly, “and that is a rare event. Where was I?” Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“You were talking about how clever I am,” he said.

“I do mean it, you know. I know your dad hated you because you couldn’t do maths, but even Valjean was impressed with your classics essay. This is the man who can probably bench-press us both. The man who beat _Bahorel_ in an arm wrestling contest – and your art is astonishing. I loved the Blake ones,” and he smiled.

“You’re really fucking charming, you know that? It’s scary,” Grantaire told him, but reached out to hold his hand. “It doesn’t surprise me that you love Blake, actually. All that blood running down palace walls and marriage hearse stuff. “Thou Shalt Not”, and the grey-headed beadles – I forget which poem is which, to be honest – “

 “The world’s on fire, and Blake can see the spark which lit the inferno. Revolutions and chaos go hand in hand, and words are a good way of forcing some sort of order – even only linguistically – onto things. Or so Jehan tells me,” he admitted, and smiled. “Although I do know that as far as fire goes, you make me feel like my bones are burning, and it scares me. I suppose fires do that, get out of control.”

 “You think we’re out of control?” Grantaire asked, and his left leg twitched. He ignored it, and Enjolras placed a hand on his knee.

“I think being out of control can be good, sometimes. But we can’t burn out,” Enjolras said, and his voice was tight and his hands were clenched. “We won’t burn out,” he promised to the skin of Grantaire’s neck, kissing his collarbone. He shifted until he was straddling Grantaire, and kissed his neck again.

“You can’t just – “ Grantaire began, leaning back slightly to expose the long lines of his throat. “I didn’t think you’d want me any more,” he muttered into his collar.

Enjolras drew back to look at him. He was looking out of the window at the grey skies, as if they would give in and drop the snow that they had been sullenly holding on to for weeks now. A car went past, and then another, engines sounding harsh in the sudden silence. Enjolras reached out again to hold Grantaire’s hand. “If the sun fell into the sea I would want you,” he said quietly. “If the world burned and we burned with it then our ashes would find each other, in the mass grave or whatever – “

 Grantaire laughed despite himself. “That started out lovely, but rather declined. I’d suggest talking to Jehan about words, and suitable ones for wooing, “mass grave” not being a particularly romantic phrase. But you’d suit death just as well as life. I know I would,” and he laughed again, a little too loudly.

“I’m serious, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, moving his hand from Grantaire’s thigh to his shoulder.

“When are you not?” Grantaire replied, but kissed him anyway.

 “Missed you,” he said quickly, between kisses, and Enjolras groaned in response. “It’s been a while,” Grantaire told him, sliding one hand to Enjolras’ hip, and digging his thumb into the groove of the bone there. “So I – do you want to go slowly?”

 Enjolras looked at him, and shook his head, before reaching out to unbutton Grantaire’s shirt. “This,” he said swiftly, “is a hideous shirt. It would look far better on the floor, I think,” and Grantaire laughed at that, shoving his shirt over his own shoulders. Enjolras tugged his shirt up over his head, and then leaned forwards to kiss the dark hair which trailed from Grantaire’s navel and disappeared below his jeans.

“Fuck,” Grantaire said, voice so even that he had to be controlling it. Enjolras tried not to smirk at that, and touched Grantaire through his jeans; Grantaire’s hips bucked, and he moaned very quietly into Enjolras’ mouth. He rolled them over, very gently, until Enjolras was on his back.

“I need you,” Enjolras told him, dragging his belt through its loops. Grantaire moved his hands to help, and then slipped a thumb below Enjolras’ boxers.

He rubbed his thumb over the length of Enjolras’ cock, and Enjolras hissed under his breath. “Don’t make me beg, you know I’ve never begged in my _life_ – “

“Yeah,” Grantaire said to him, biting at his neck, “upper class alright,” and Enjolras swore and pushed against Grantaire’s hand.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said, with as much authority and dignity as he could muster. Grantaire laughed, and moved his wrist a little faster. Enjolras shoved his jeans over his hips, and went to move, but Grantaire stopped him.

“I like looking at you like this,” he said, and Enjolras rolled his eyes, but unbuttoned Grantaire’s jeans as well.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he said, as Grantaire dug around on the shelf under the coffee table for the lube. “I mean, I’ve been touching myself, thinking about this. Thinking about you fucking me in a great many places, and in a great many ways – _fuck_ ,” he said, as Grantaire slipped a finger inside him. “Don’t use too much lube,” he added. “I want to feel every inch of you,” and Grantaire bit down on his neck again.

 “I’ve been thinking about it too,” Grantaire said, shifting them both so that he could slide another finger inside; Enjolras tilted his head back, hair falling down his back. “I want to fuck you in some sort of government property. Or council offices, failing that. You know, stick it to the man, and all that – “

 He bit off a curse in Enjolras’ shoulder, where a bruise was beginning to form, as Enjolras reached out to touch him. “Wait,” he said, leaning to the side to grab at the box. “Condoms,” and Enjolras frowned.

“I like feeling you,” he said, half-pouting, and Grantaire shrugged.

“You think I don’t like feeling you? How welcome you make me? Because it’s the best feeling in the world, quite possibly. And I have tried every chemical possible to achieve that high, and nothing beats it,” and he took a deep breath, shuddering slightly. “I was negative for HIV, but I’d still rather – “

“It’s fine,” Enjolras told him quickly, ripping the packet open. “I can put it on,” and he set the condom against his lips and rolled it on with his tongue. Grantaire arched his back so far that he almost kicked the coffee table, and Enjolras smiled; Grantaire slid his fingers back into Enjolras, until he was as hard as he’d even been, and swollen with need. “Fuck,” Enjolras said, as Grantaire’s finger brushed his prostate.

“Was that a request?” Grantaire said, reaching out to stroke Enjolras.

“Fuck me,” Enjolras asked, in a voice which he would later deny sounded like begging at all, and Grantaire moved his fingers out and grasped Enjolras’ hips with both hands.

“Bend your knees – open your legs for me,” he said, and Enjolras complied. A deep flush was spreading across his cheeks and chest, and he almost reached down to touch himself, but Grantaire took his hands.

“Do we need safewords?” Enjolras asked, clenching his fists in the sofa cushion. “Because – because I would quite like you to hold my hands down, if that’s alright. I was thinking “Michael Gove”, as an example of one of the least sexy thoughts there are,” and Grantaire laughed and closed his fists around Enjolras’ wrists.

“Like this?” he asked, and Enjolras nodded. “Okay,” Grantaire said, sliding in smoothly, and the word ended on a stutter as he tried to hold still.

“You can move,” Enjolras said, and shifted his hips; desire spiked through him, and he moved with Grantaire. Grantaire bit down on his neck again, and tried to slow himself down, but Enjolras tilted his head back and opened his legs until he could no longer resist.

“You’re pretty when you’re held down,” he muttered, and shifted until Enjolras held his hands so tightly that he would have crescent moon-nail marks in his palms, and swore, and bucked his hips in a manner that would be classed as obscene, if anyone were to witness it. Grantaire moved his hips faster, until it hit him, white spots at the corner of his eyes and Enjolras’ name like a prayer on his tongue.

Enjolras blinked once, and then Grantaire reached down to touch him, licking his fingers clean, and Enjolras cursed him and bunched his fingers, splayed out, in the sofa cushions, and came with a half-howl that sent shivers up Grantaire’s spine. They looked at each other, caught in the half-light from the window, and Grantaire kissed Enjolras, almost chastely.

 “It’s been a while,” Enjolras said defensively, once he had managed to start speaking again. “And – don’t tell Combeferre, and for god’s sake it’s ridiculous, but I rather enjoyed the – restraint,” and his face was red, although Grantaire wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or sexual exploits.

“Why can’t I tell him? He - oh, shit, he's next door - he probably heard,” Grantaire said, handing Enjolras his boxers to wipe himself down with. “God, you’re sweaty,” he added.

“Because I have a feeling he’d disapprove. Liberty for the people, except not in the bedroom – I can imagine he’d make placards or something. And then Jehan – “

“Look,” Grantaire said, dropping the condom into a bin and grimacing, “I have it on good authority that you are not the only kinky freak in this little gang. Why would I tell him, anyway?”

 Enjolras shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that – “

“I’m a drunk addict with appalling table manners?” Grantaire suggested, flinching away from him, and shoving on his jeans.

Enjolras looked aghast. “No, nothing like that! Besides, your table manners are perfectly passable – “ he broke off at the look on Grantaire’s face. “It’s just that I know you tell Éponine everything, and she might tell Combeferre,” he said simply.

“She feels responsible for the drugs,” Grantaire said, shifting back towards Enjolras. “Not sure why, or how I can shake her of these ideas. But I’m not seeing her until that protest thingy we have for the winter Olympics – “

 Enjolras looked at him in amazement. “Did you – did you check the Facebook group?”

 Grantaire looked slightly smug. “Well, detox sucks, so I decided to do something good for once – namely, something good for you. So – next week. I can do arty shite, if you want. But can you – will you check all my hidey-holes for alcohol? It’s just that – “

 Enjolras broke him off with a kiss. “I’ll do that, and I’ll remind the others as well.” He smiled at him, as if a smile could paper all the cracks in a person’s soul, and then kissed him as if it would mend them forever.

 “You can’t fix me,” Grantaire told him, and Enjolras looked unperturbed.

“I know, but I can be here for you. The leaflet said – “ but Grantaire threw a balled-up shirt at him.

“Shut up about the fucking leaflets, okay? If I tell you I love you will you shut up about them?”

Enjolras blinked, and Grantaire watched him do so, carefully poised to escape if he had read this wrong.

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, and smiled so widely that Grantaire kissed his teeth by mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while   
>  this fic is finished (probably) and I am choosing not to write about Grantair undergoing a miraculous recovery. THat won't happen; he'll relapse and fuck up and make mistakes again and again because people so often do. It would be patronising to those struggling with drug problems to make it look that easy to give up; addiction is not weakness but illness. 
> 
> I'm probably going to revisit this from time to time - Éponine and Combeferre need to be talked about, and I want to do Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta bit at some point. But other than that, the story is over. Thanks for sticking with it !

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://enjolrastic.co.vu/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/beautyisterror)


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